Kitty Chat

Tell you what… my arms hurt like the dickens.... Whatever ‘the dickens’ actually is, if it’s a descriptor for ‘sore and hard to move’ well then, ‘the dickens’ describes it perfectly. My tum hurts as well…

I think I have gone a weensy bit overboard with my upper-body and stomach exercises. To tell the truth, it’s only because I have nothing to do. I have now finished my latest Patricia Cornwell book, Blowfly and am waiting to get my hands on Trace. I loaned my laptop to Séverine as her computer went tits up so I haven’t been able to do my Blogging every night as normal, so I am catching up on it today.

Funny, but I have gotten so used to doing this spilling of my mental guts every night, that when I didn’t have a chance to do it, I got restless. So I wrote it out in longhand in a A4 lined notebook as a substitute for banging away with my three-fingered typing on the laptop. Then I got fed up with writing so decided to do exercises instead. Never let it be said I lead anything but an exhilarating existence.

The 1½-litre water bottles I am using are a 2kg weight (or about 5 pounds in old money.) Google and I discovered this fabulous internet site that has little ‘movies’ of how to do the exercises based on the muscle group you are focusing on. Check it out. (I just inserted the link now at 3pm, which works... Oooo, aren't I clever. What was that? Oh, behave!)

I suppose, if I am really and truly bored, I could Spring-clean the flat one more time. Of course, I could, but why bother? After all, it will just get dirty again…

I suppose I should discuss the real reason why I finally decided to lose weight since I am already miserable as it is. It’s a depressing reason, but I need another big emotional cleansing. So it might be hard to read, maybe not, depends if this subject has ever touched your life or someone you know.

OK, here goes.

December 2000 I found out I was pregnant. We had just come back from Florida from visiting my Dad in the hospital as he was dying of Kidney failure. I called to tell him the news, even though it was very early, the test was positive. He was overjoyed, as was my Mom, and promised to keep it under their hats until I had amniocentesis. (To date I have been pregnant ten times, resulting in three live births.) I knew the risks: at 21 stones something, I was severely overweight, I have had heart problems, three caesareans, DVT and I am asthmatic. Nevertheless, we were overjoyed, as I had wanted another child ever since my youngest daughter was born.

Valentines Day, my Dad died of multiple organ failure, I was devastated as even though we went out before he had gotten real bad the three months prior, so he could see the girls, I wasn’t there when he died. My Mom didn’t cope well, she really started going downhill herself at that point. I was so far away and just tried to help as best I could but ended up not being anything but ineffective, I’m sure.

Then I miscarried late February, 2001. A direct result of not only stress, but also being just too damn fat to carry the baby. I really beat myself up over this one but ignored all advice to lose weight and just kept comfort eating and working like a dog. I didn’t tell my Mom I had lost the baby and as her brain cancer advanced, she ‘forgot’ about it. I just couldn’t take that joy of having another grandchild away from her, she loved her grandchildren so much…

Then Mom died...

My Doctor said to leave it awhile so we started trying again the next year. Nothing. I finally decided to listen to reason and went to see a nutritionist who put me on a low-fat diet using prescribed diet pills (Reductil) in spring 2003 and I lost just over a stone or so by basically starving myself to death. Low-fat sucks. Then my own doctor recommended Atkins, I started that in mid-October 2003 and I haven’t looked back, weight wise at least…

I fell pregnant again late October 2003. I told no one, it was strictly between myself and my brilliant Doctor. I didn't even tell my husband as I was afraid to do so, afraid I would ‘jinx’ it. That pregnancy lasted just six weeks after the positive test. Again, at the weight I was at, it was impossible to sustain a pregnancy, at least a viable pregnancy. I guess that was the final straw, losing that particular pregnancy, I knew that I had to lose weight; I owed it to any future child. And should I never, ever be blessed with another child, I have no one to blame but myself…

I suppose it might be easy to see why my own three children are so precious to me, even more so because they are actually here and alive. I also know that if I had been more mindful of my Doctor’s advice, I might just have another child here with me. Maybe my husband I would not have split up if that had been the case. Maybe I would just be in even deeper do-do, I don’t know. It’s also never good to say, ‘If only’ as so many factors affect our lives, so many variables.

So that is the real reason why I finally started losing this excess weight, because I so desperately wanted another child. I am continuing now for other reasons, my health mainly but also because I really want to be gorgeous at some point before I die.

A shallow reason, perhaps, but at least its honest.

Well, once again, I have hit a plateau in my weight loss. I am stuck at 83kg and no matter what I try to do; the scale just refuses to budge. It really has gotten to the point where I am wondering just how little I can consume food-wise per day. I have also cut right back on the alcohol, just don’t fancy it anyway; I prefer to drink water now, of an evening.

‘So, what’s the problem?’ I am thinking… Oh crap, I am doing that annoying Blog thing where you ask a question and then answer it yourself. In fact I do it all through this particular Blog. Well, it’s not because I am some wise Swami or Guru, it’s just I know a lot about this subject, Biology and all that. Plus, I Googled and Oxford Science Dictionary’d what I was unsure on. So, I am not trying to make out as if I am some Clever Cat, I’m not. (I am also not purporting to be well educated, fabulous or erudite; I’m just an average Joe… or Jane. In fact, I have never seen or read LOTR because I feel I am not intelligent enough to understand it, all that convoluted Tolkien Middle Earth stuff, heavens. I will eventually need to read it though, just so I can understand, ‘Why not a catapult?’ ( )So where did that come from Kitty? Why do you feel the need to defend yourself? Besides feeling inept and incompetent but still wanting people to like you? Crap, there I go again…)

Right, that inadequately explained; let’s move on to the fascinating subject of Calories, Basal Metabolic Rate and Dietary Thermogenesis.

OK. So I have now decreased my food intake to one ‘real meal’ spread out over a day. I have Psyllium husks mixed with Apple juice and water for breakfast along with a couple cups of Decaf with cream. (Now before you say now’t, if I DON’T do all this Psyllium husk nonsense, I won’t be able to, erm, move the waste along, so to speak, as I am consuming so few grams of carbs/fibre.) For lunch, I am having first the Psyllium husks then a plain can of tuna or sardines or possibly a wedge of brie with some mixed salad greens dressed with a spicy chile dressing I make myself. At night, I have even more Psyllium husks and then maybe something like Thai fish and veg or Chèvre and salad, but usually I just skip the meal. I feed the girls and busy myself in the kitchen making their dessert and doing the washing up as they eat, so I don’t miss having the meal since I’m occupied doing something else, if you see what I mean. I am keeping my Carbs at or below 30gms a day. So it’s honestly not as if I am stuffing my face with food. So why is my weight staying the same, dammit? (OK, ready for the Blog answer?)

The only reason I can find is that I have lowered my Basal Metabolic Rate. BMR is the amount of heat energy need just to survive. How many calories you need a day even if you were in a coma. The body is a fascinating thing. If it believes that you are starving or going through a famine, it will change how you metabolise your food nutrients, conserving energy so to require less food so to therefore preserve your life. My body just hasn’t realised that the fully packed saddlebags I am carrying are actually what masquerade as my hips, tummy and thighs. When following any weight loss regime, the more you lose and the closer you get to goal weight, the harder it becomes to shed the last few pounds. So as I am on my last 18kg/40 pounds/2 stones 12 pounds, I am finding it dead hard to even loose so much as a pound. I have certainly not been this ‘slim’ in years. I’m not really ‘slim’, I mean that in comparison to how I was, I am still a flabby 40 pounds overweight, completely out of shape and it certainly looks like it, especially from the side. Up until now, a major source of my exercise was just moving my massive body about. Since losing 93 pounds or so, I no longer have that weight exerting its influence on me. I feel miles better for it as well. Even so, my Body wants to hold on to this last little bit of fat just in case there is another sudden Ice Age while my Mind wants to dump it as it envisions me in a tight, sleeveless, size 10, little black dress. With the accompanying lacy, racy bra and knickers to go with it… Yes, please.

I guess Mind and I will just have to try to trick Body into using up this last bit of fat. I can’t really change the BMR in and of itself unless I build muscles, as muscle is ‘metabolically active’, even at rest, much more so than any other body tissue. I have started on building the muscle now with the upper body malarkey, but it will be weeks before I notice any change there I am sure.

Eating Chile/Chilli or foods that are hot and spicy is also supposed to cause a temporary rise in the metabolic rate by up to 50% for up to 3 hours after you’ve eaten a spicy meal. You know how you get those little sweat beads along your forehead after a good Indian meal? That’s the raised metabolism kicking in. Drinks containing caffeine also stimulate the metabolism and plain green tea does as well. I eat loads of chile and cayenne; in fact, I have cayenne pepper on the table as a condiment and use it as much as I use salt or pepper. On the other hand, caffeine is pretty much verboten on Atkins although I DO have a full-caffeine-whack petite crème at La Grand Café whenever I go there. Maybe I need to start drinking green tea at lunch.

I found this on Dietary Thermogenesis and thought it interesting: There is some evidence to suggest that eating small, regular meals will keep your metabolism going faster than larger, less frequent meals. There are two reasons why meal frequency may affect your metabolism. Firstly, levels of thyroid hormones begin to drop within hours of eating a meal, and metabolism slows. Secondly, it may be that the thermogenic effect of eating several small meals is slightly higher than eating the same amount of calories all at once. Oh goody. I can treat myself to more Psyllium husks or brie for Elevensies and Tea.

I need to drink more water. Everyone needs about 3-4 litres of water a day and I know I don’t get anywhere near that much. And that’s plain water, all those cups of decaf don’t count.

Finally, I need to get moving more. Even fidgeting will help somewhat as it is, after all, an activity. I have been lax in my morning walk around Kleg for the last couple of weeks as I have been in Pontivy almost every weekday and don’t have the time to do both. I need to make that morning walk more of a priority. Ok, I will start that tomorrow, Friday, for sure.

So, I will really put into practice all these ideas, and see what I come up with after a week of small and frequent meals, extra spicy food, more water, more movement and more muscle-building exercise. And NO Sangria…

I feel a bit differently about things now, today, compared to the day I wrote today’s posting, but I think I will let it show anyway. It’s funny to me and, well… I did feel that way last weekend.

But not as much now…

OK. Today’s Blog is written JUST for women. Women who are losing weight like I am. Women who have had men dump on them before because of their size. Women who would just sometimes like a teensy bit of revenge on the men who have treated us like a doormat or as if we did not even so much as exist. Simply because of the way we looked. Simply because we were fat.

IF you are a guy, stop reading now, this is not for you.

I mean it, stop reading all you men, come back some other day and read about the Kleg festival, it involves listening to music and drinking beer. But please go away today… this is strictly a GIRL’S Blog!

Cool, are we alone ladies? Right. I have to tell you what happened to me this last weekend, it is soooo funny! Let me set the scene…

You know what it is like for guys to not even so much as acknowledge your existence? Do you know how painful it is to get those sidelong glances, the snickers or the look that says you are gross and there is no way you are going to even enter into a conversation with the man? I have had attitude just like that directed at me for the last 18 years or so. Or how about the look of disappointment you get when you meet someone for the first time and they were obviously expecting someone a lot more attractive? (The dangers of an online relationship and the reason I came to England in ‘96… I will write a Blog on it sometime.) As far as I am concerned, men hold the cards and guys can be so damn cruel. Especially about your outward appearance.

I think I have more than just mentioned the fact I used to be huge. I mean it; I was massive, immense… I was a land-locked manatee. Size 24/26 at one point. Today, I look normal, size-wise. I find size16 jeans are quite baggy on me. IF I could be arsed to exercise a bit more, I would be in a size 14 today but, Heh, I have way better things to do… like, Erm… alphabetize my spice rack. Sit-ups are too boring, I can’t afford Musculation just yet (the brassiere money went on food and phone credit,) the weather has been too crap to bike and although I do my walking, it’s just not enough now. I am stuck at 83kg, I am too tired to have another ‘Emotional Catharsis’ right now and the idea of sitting on the floor doing leg lifts makes me want to lay down and take a nap.

However, I have now lost enough weight so that my face has changed along with the rest of my body. In fact, my face is the bit that has changed the most. It has slimmed down, the double chin is completely gone, my neck muscles stand out now and, Yahoo! I have my prominent cheekbones back again! (Thank you Mom and my female Native American Choctaw ancestors for that!) I look completely different today than I did say, three years ago. Therefore, unless you know me very well, you would not recognise me passing me in the street. Or if you were having a casual conversation with me. Or… if you were trying to chat me up in a bar…

Hahaha…!!! (Kitty is doubled up with raucous laughter) Can you see where this is leading?

This weekend we are having the yearly Kleg Festival here in Cléguérec, it’s called Bombarde this year and we have musical groups here from all over the world. It goes from Friday afternoon until Sunday late afternoon. Think of it as one long party. There are several stages for the music groups and one is just across the street from me at the Celtik Brasserie (I love real ale and I live in France across from a small, artisan brewery that has not only a bar, but also sells off-license, am I lucky or what?) I have left the window open, lying in my bed with a glass of wine and listened to the music for free for the last two nights, it’s been great!

But I digress…

Anyway, I took the girls down to the festival last night (after what had happened with Sidney, I figured we could all do with a bit of levity.) Went into the Ti Korn Bar and my girls immediately ran off with the Landlady’s children, they have Breton Dance classes together and love to play ensemble. Ordered a demi pressé and stood listening to the band playing. After awhile, in walked this gaggle of Anglais and I instantly recognised one of them. Oh, let’s call him Milton, shall we? He had come to our longere with his builder mates and had given us a quote on some work we needed doing three years back. Didn’t go through with them because we went and looked at their work on three other properties. It was shite. Well, in my opinion, of course, and my opinion is the only one that matters to me. I also used to run into him all the time with his gang of mates at the buvette over at Langoëlan. Suffice to say, I have met him at least 20 times… but haven’t seen him for about two years. I also know he is a prat of the highest magnitude who thinks himself ‘God’s Most Attractive Gift to Women’…

Since I recognised him, I smiled at him, waved and said hello. He smiles back, swaggers over to my bit of the bar and offers to buy me another drink (odd I thought, but well… whatever, yes, thanks.) Hands me a pint instead of a demi then Milty-boy starts in with the usual, standard chat-up crap: So… Where do you live? Been here long? What do you do? How is your French? A pretty girl like you surely is married… Where is your husband? Oh, separated are we? What do you do for fun? The only thing he left out was, ‘What’s your sign?’ I found all this weird since he knows all this stuff about me. Why ask again? His memory can’t be that bad… And just why was he being so nice to me? Why in heaven’s name was he being so focused on me? Although we have talked a lot in the past, his eyes before had been always been anywhere but on my face; anytime before as we talked, he was always scanning the room looking for something tastier to talk to than me…

Ahhhhhh… I get it. It slowly but surely dawned on me that he had no idea who I was. He didn’t recognise me at all…

Oooo… let’s have fun with this one.

Turned on the Kitty Charm full-blast: the big 1000-watt smile, did the pouty mouth thing, fluttered the eyelashes, playing with my hair, little girl-y giggle, you know… the whole enchilada… flirting outrageously... as you do. And it worked. He kept chatting at me, smiling, making jokes, doing all that male posturing that they do when they think they are in with a chance and then offered to buy me yet another drink. I laughed and said, “Ooh! Are you trying to get me drunk, you naughty boy?” He leered at me and said, “Well, that depends… would you like me to?”

Hmm. OK. Right, that does it, ça suffit. Think Kitty is done now. It’s time to reel in the fish.

I declined politely saying I couldn’t possibly get drunk, see, because of the children…

Gulp… children? You have children? (He honestly does not like children, yes, there are people who have that particular character flaw, he is one of them…)

“Oh yes, they are a lot bigger now since you saw them last at Pascaline and NoNo’s buvette but yes, they are still with me…” then smiled brightly at him and waited for it to sink in…

I wish I had a video of the face change as the penny dropped. It went from confused, paused briefly at disbelief, then incredulity and finally shock as he realised just who I was…

“You have a longere in Kerbédic, don’t you?” I smiled again and said yes…

“Bloody hell… YOU? But… but… It can’t be! I know you… You are that big, fat American woman who used to go to the Buvette all the time. You were the one who was always happy and laughing. I can’t believe it. I didn’t recognise you at all! Wow lady, you have lost one whole hell of a lot of weight! You look great, you really do!” Then he started to look really embarrassed and uncomfortable as he realised not only had he put his foot in his mouth but that all his effort with the posturing and chat-up was for naught.

I thanked him for the ‘compliment’ and the beer and excused myself to the ladies room because he was now visibly beginning to squirm. I knew he would be long gone when I got back. There were all these other, eligible females in the room and he was wasting time (and beer) on some woman who had, ewww, ‘kids’…

Catch and release, it’s only fair, don’t you agree?

Oh, that was fun…

Right, I’ll go back to behaving now…

I have this pair of blue jeans that I used to wear years and years ago. I haven't been able to wear them baggy-comfortable since, well… probably 1987 or so, maybe before, honestly. I think I was able to just struggle into them when I arrived in England in December '96 but know I was too fat to wear them by my birthday, 1 February 1997. I know because I went out a few days before and bought new jeans… and about fainted at the cost. Levis in the UK cost about three times what they do in the US. Anyway, these Levis are 551s (so zip - don't button) and are a tight size 16. They represent a time in my life when I was slim, single, happy, and having a great time. So, if I haven't worn them for 18 years or so, why the hell drag them all over America, the UK and now France? Well, I always figured that one day, one day… I could fit into them. In the past, I would drag them out from time to time and pull them up to my calves, sigh, take them off, fold them up and put them back into the bottom drawer.

Well, they were in with the stuff that my ex brought me from the UK house. I was going through all the clothes he had brought; most of it will go to charity, as it's either far too small for the girls or far too big for me… (Size 28 dresses, jackets and trousers??? Bloody hell!)

Anyway, I was tossing my old Levis onto the charity pile but then paused as I recalled the history behind them so I stopped and picked them back up. Might as well try them on before getting rid, I haven't done this in two years or so, I suppose. So, slip off my other jeans, step into these Levis… and pull them straight up to my waist, zipping them up without even thinking… I was in total shock because, in fact, they are slightly loose on me!

It's hard to explain how I felt, after all, these are only a pair of jeans, for heaven's sake! But… it's so much more than that. These jeans are a milestone, a benchmark to me. I have been trying so hard to lose weight, to become healthy, to become physically attractive, to have a nice figure again. It's important to me. However, I have also concluded that it won't really matter a fig as far as me and men are concerned, because, I don't want to be with a guy if he is only into outward appearance. I am not doing this diet and exercise lark to be more 'marketable' to men, I am doing it strictly for myself.

The way I am behaving, going on about physical appearance, you would think I was planning on moving back to LA. Nah, I'm not. I would need to get a complete body restructuring, then daily Pilates and Spinning classes… too much effort! I think I need to lay down with a cool compress and a few revitalizing drinks just thinking about it!

So, I have washed my Levis and will proudly wear them at this Saturday's BBQ. No one but me will understand the importance or the significance… but I will… and I am damn proud of myself.

I have now reached that delectable stage that happens in all of my successful diet/weight-loss regimes. I am no longer obsessing about what I am putting in my mouth and instead eating only when I am hungry. So, not often. In fact, it’s more a sense of how little did I manage with today?

In case anyone believes for a moment I am going the way of Karen Carpenter, may I heartily assure you that I am a good 6-8 stones away from that point in time… I enjoy the sensual pleasure of eating too much to become anorexic. Plus, I am too good of a cook. And after having Morning Sickness with all three of my children, I cannot for a instant understand the fascination of bulimia. Heh you chubby girls! Why not just exercise and put proper nutrients in the old gob?

So again… Musculation. I know I need to do it, I know I HAVE to do it. I now have some bodacious music to exercise to. It’s just across the street. I can use the money I was going to buy a brassiere with and instead get a year’s membership… and a key. (Can you believe they trust you enough to just give you a key to the place? After going to a Gold’s Gym and that ilk in So Cal, this ‘weight-room’ and the frank honesty that is expected and given just amazes me and cracks me up… You know, I love rural France… it’s so darn quaint…)

Think I had better stick to light, anodyne, undemanding and non-contentious subjects for a few days… Oooohhh… I just love a Thesaurus…

Again, remember, no one is demanding your time to read this… right? OK, just so we are clear on that point… And for heaven's sake, these Blogs are directed at no one in particular. On the other hand if the shoe fits Cinderella, put it on…

Should I stay here in France or should I go back to the UK?
Yes, this is actually a question that I have been tossing around for the last few months. I have come so far, here in France, that it seems more than a pity to return to my former life in the UK. But sometimes it is so hard here with the girls all on my own. Plus there are possible good reasons for going back.

Like my husband, for instance...

I got an e-mail a while back from a close friend. We commiserate together over our respective 'partners' and the problems we have with them. You know, an ally, someone else who is going through a break-up after many years of marriage. Anyway, out of the blue, they said they had decided to go back, give it another go, another chance. This was frankly shocking to me as I know more than a bit of their problems, but, Heh, it's only natural to go with what you've endured before I suppose, right? (Yes, I chose the word endure for a reason.) Better the devil you know… they wrote in this e-mail. I can't say I agree and told them so but hoped that 'the best will happen for the good of all concerned,' a bit weak, you may say, but I don't believe getting back together would be best for them. (I'm sorry my darling Den, I will always support you, but that's the way I feel, you know…) But ultimately, it is their life, and they are my friends, so…

Also, did I start a trend? Because a lot of the people I know are choosing to go their separate ways… nothing to do with me, I hasten to add! Maybe I am an example, if she can do it, why can't I? I usually think it is best to try to make it work, but there is only so much effort you should put into beating a dead horse. As my Dad said to solace me when I finally left my first husband, "Sweetheart, you gotta know when to fish… and when to cut bait…" He was right, you know…

Anyway, this e-mail interchange was playing in the back of my mind Wednesday as I sat in front of the big living room window after lunch, watching the children playing together in the field under the brilliant sunshine, me absentmindedly doing my French homework. Although the girls and I are really happy here, the Decree Nisi hasn't gone through yet. I could tell the court I didn't wish to continue anymore, I know my husband would have me back in a heartbeat… and the reason I left him no longer really exists…(or does it?) Plus, the girls certainly miss their Daddy. I suppose I miss the companionship of my husband as well… And the sex was always great…

So I thought, I need to do a list, all the pluses and minuses, and take an objective look at what it would be like to go back to my husband and my former life in England or… what it would be like to have him here with me in France. So pop into the kitchen for another cup of decaf as I mused on the idea… and grabbed half a dozen slices of Pain de Maïs and spread them with Garlic and Herb Boursin. Settle down to make the list, watching the kids outside as I drink the coffee and scoff the bread… then still feeling peckish, I found myself at the fridge again, this time for a slice of tarte citron (which was given to us this week along with other sweet goodies from Banque Alimentaire) and of course, to go with the tarte, another cup of decaf. Imagining living together with my husband here in France necessitated an additional slice of tarte citron and a slice of chocolate cake… Then a serving of pasta carbonara left over from the girl's lunch… then several more pieces of Pain de Maïs… and then an entire package of vanilla gaufrettes to dip in my coffee…

Anyone see a pattern here? I certainly didn't while I was in it. It was only later when the boys were going home with Séverine and I felt ill that I walked in the kitchen and saw the mess I had left, empty tarte and cake packages, the container from the pasta, the gaufrette wrapper, the empty plastic tub of Boursin. For a moment I had no idea where it all had come from… then the realization hit me like a wet mackerel. I had eaten all this without realizing it.

"So what Kitty? So you had a little pig-out, no biggie…" you may thus reply, unless you know me. See, I have been on the Atkins' Diet now since October 2003 (under my Doctor's recommendation) and have lost almost the equivalent of a person to date: 90 pounds / 41 kg / 6 stones 7 pounds. I am damn proud of my progress and won't allow anything to stand in the way of me reaching my goal. I only have 42 pounds / 19 kg / 2 stones 13 pounds left to go. That's not a lot, really, considering where I was before I started this… and that wasn't even at my heaviest weight…

BUT… certain types of high-glycemic carbohydrates are strictly verboten on this diet; like sugar, white flour, semolina pasta, and potatoes. The idea, now, of sticking bread, let alone cake, in my gob sickens and disgusts me. See, one of the reasons I had my heart attack last August was because I had gone off this diet (OK, that and one whole hell of a lot of stress, but the high cholesterol in my blood came from all the carbs, not the other stuff…) So it's important to my health to stick to this regime and I have done so since coming out of hospital… and it's shown as a slow but steady weight loss.

So why the sudden Carb Party?

Well, I thought about it a lot over the last day or so and sussed that I have always eaten breads, doughnuts, cakes and the like when I am stressed, usually stressed over a man, or in a stressful relationship. In an unhappy relationship.

When I look back over the years and my relationships, I find that whenever I have been in a fulfilling relationship, or living on my own, I have always been at my lightest weight. See, I desire to be fit and be attractive for myself and, when in a relationship, for 'my man.' I will wear make-up, dresses and skirts, lacy feminine things, stockings and suspenders, revealing tops and sexy bras and knickers since, well, I think myself pretty when I am in love. I dress and try to look lovely for my gentleman because I want him to be blissfully happy and ecstatically proud to have me on his arm. I dress up to please him. Yes, completely dead old-fashioned and I am sure to be pulled up by N.O.W. and many other feminist associations, but that's how I feel. When I am with the right man, I feel like a woman… (There's a song there somewhere…)

When I am happy with my relationship, that is. If I am in an unfulfilling relationship, if it's wrong for me, for whatever reason, I dress down, I look dowdy, wear my hair simply pulled back in a ponytail, I wear baggy, unrevealing clothing, and I eat to comfort myself, since I am not receiving the comfort from the relationship. It's my 'Man-o-meter'… if I start turning into the broad side of an ugly barn, it means there is something seriously wrong and I had better discover what, quickly. I frankly think all women are like this when they find themselves in a 'bad-for-them' relationship and I think they would discover this if they were to sincerely look deep into their psyche. Why become fat, otherwise? Hmmm?

(An aside here, I cleaned out my closet and do you know I have exactly no sexy attire in my wardrobe at the moment? I bought some sexy bras last July when I left my husband, which are nowadays too big for my incredibly shrinking boobies, but the 'nice bras' purchase was as far as it got. On the other hand, if I had purchased new clothes, they would all be too big anyway, so good thing then, I suppose. Hmmm, might as well wait now until I reach goal weight, eh?)

So, back on track, I have to question myself, "Is my subconscious trying to tell me something?" Yes, I think it is. When I looked at the list I had made, there were many positive points and many negative points as well. A balance of sorts… So the decision is hard to make, until I listen to my inner voice and it speaks very clearly here. Luckily I am paying attention.

Please do understand that I will not and do not judge my friend Den, or even a closer friend who is doing the same, for the decision to go back to their partner. It is their life and their choice. Life is seldom straightforward and we must do what is necessary on a day-to-day basis. This includes making choices that ideally, we would not make. It's my old sailing reference again; when the wind is blowing full in your face but you must sail on forward, it will never be straight ahead but a zigzag course… until the wind changes… and the wind always does change… eventually… the only requisite is patience. An essential attribute I am trying to cultivate.

After an enormous amount of time spent pondering this, I think in many respects it would be dishonest for me to go back again, I would be returning simply for my convenience more than anything else. The reason I left him does still exist: I was miserably unhappy in the marriage, that is why I left him, for that and no other reason. There is affection still there, without doubt, after all, we had two children together but there is no real love and certainly no respect anymore. That is a very hard thing to admit as it makes me feel quite empty and shallow... and more than a little sad.

So even though returning would make him happy now, in the log run it would be far worse as he would have just my body there, an empty, unhappy shell as my mind and spirit can never be in the marriage again. I can't do the 'playacting' anymore, I respect myself too much for that. Because of these things, going back would not be kind on him, it might be giving him hope that things would go back to the way they were… when they never would… I couldn't do that to him, no matter what has gone before and happened since. You can't live on crumbs - food-wise, love-wise or relationship-wise.

You know, my head sometimes has to tell my heart what to do. Luckily they are in complete agreement here.

The weather is acting quite odd. One day it is brilliant Breton blue sky, the next day throwing down rain. We're on the downward slope going from April into May and I want to be eating salads but am ending up making warming stews instead. I can never seem to stay warm nowadays, one side effect to losing some of my thick overcoat of adipose tissue, I suppose. Glancing in a shop window yesterday, I realised my silhouette looked quite normal, that's even without sucking in my gut.

Ah yes, my gut.

I do have an issue with my stomach. Ever since my first c-section in 1988, I have had this bum-bag, this fanny-pack (to use the American vernacular) of fat riding just between my navel and the c-section scar. It looks disgusting, I hate it, it annoys me, I want rid of it. It has gotten smaller but is still there, mocking my efforts of sit-ups and stomach crunches.

And before anyone thinks otherwise, I am perfectly content 'in my skin'. I know that no matter how much I try, I will never look like Angelina Jolie; gravity has had too much time to work on my body for that to happen.

It just would be nice to wear something besides 'full-size briefs'; the staunch and stalwart 'Bridget Jones' knickers... I want to wear sexy stuff even if it's just for me. (Especially as it IS only 'just for me', the only person watching me take off my underwear is my reflection in the mirror... Not that I am complaining, mind you, after all, I get the good side of the bed, never have to deal with stinky feet, there is never stubble in the sink and the toilet seat is always down... OK, except on Wednesdays when the boys are here.)

Just once before I 'loose the bonds of my mortal coil', I want to resemble some model out of a Victoria's Secret catalogue. I want to be able to wear sexy underwear, like a basque, and not cause the observer to bring to mind how nice a Cumberland sausage goes with a plate of mash. I want to be able to wear a thong (or butt-floss as I call it for obvious reasons.) I want to wear a swimsuit that is in two pieces and does not include a skirt.

Don't get me wrong, I am happy enough with my body from the top of my head down to my shoulders... it's just we then run into a bit of a problem until you get to my ankles, then again its fine from there on down.

So I need to do something about this middle bit. Do something about the echo that occurs when I wave goodbye and the underarm bit continues after I have stopped. Do something about my lumpy thighs that resemble an overstuffed mattress. Do something about my back that looks like a pair of baggy tights. (Am I painting an appealing picture here?) And of course, do something about my ventre, my gut, my belly.

So I have decided to join a gym.

Now, before you start thinking Gold's Gym or Family Fitness or LA Fitness, let me remind you this is rural Brittany. Here it is not Paris, or Lyon or even Rennes. Here we have no proper Gyms with trained physical fitness instructors, no 'Juice Bars', no Jacuzzi or steam rooms and no 'step' classes. Here we have something called Musculation. What this entails in my little town is a hall, across the courtyard from the library, conveniently located just along my road at the top of the rise, so a 3-minute walk. There are free weights, mats, different benches, a Roman Chair, lots of mirrors, a rowing machine and various Nautilus-type machines dotted around. You pay 60€ for a calendar year and they give you a key to the hall and you just go whenever you want. No, really, that's how it works. They provide the equipment. You provide the motivation.

Soooo.... that's the plan. Now I just need to find the motivation (and the money) to go do it.

I'll keep you all informed of the lactic acid build-up in my muscles...