Bump and Grind (oh, the size of my behind!)

I've never really been much of a dancer. When I was growing up, ballet was an upper-middle-class rite of passage for little girls (and mothers who knew they MUST get the right dance school or Catriona/Lily/Olivia wouldn't be asked to the right parties where at least two little angels would show up in the same Laura Ashley taffeta party frock), and as most rites of passage are, it was utterly hellish. At 5, my teacher was telling me to "hold in my stomach", which meant I didn't breathe for one entire class and went a really nasty shade of blue. And people wonder from whence my neuroses spring. At six, when all the other little girls were pretending to be swans or bunnies or butterflies for a "dance like an animal" task, I chose to be a donkey, complete with galloping, hair-tossing and some braying (accidental). At seven, I got the lowest mark in the class for my ballet exam. At eight, I quit.

In many ways, Scottish Country Dancing is much more me; I've been doing it since I was two on family holidays to Crieff Hydro (again, in Laura Ashley taffeta), and at least at ceilidhs, it is less about grace and perfection and more about having a galumphing good time. However, "social dancing" at school somehow managed to scupper this also; not only was it not cool to try but unless you were very popular or had a lot of friends of the opposite sex, it basically turned into two periods of humiliating rejection as your friends were asked to dance and even the one nerd you had managed to blackmail into asking you at lunch the previous day tried desperately to avoid your line of sight until you were the only two left and the gym mistress forced you together on pain of laps and press-ups.

It was, therefore, with some trepidation that I signed up to a course of burlesque classes last month (with a tiny bit of encouragement from ACS!).

The only guidance I was given by the dance school was "arrive early in loose clothing and with small heels"; to that list I added "have a glass of wine because the thought of both dancing and acting sexily in front of a mirror scares me cackless". However, the first thing I noticed was that there were people of all ages and sizes there, and many were in full makeup and cute outfits, rather showing me up in my uncharacteristic tinted moisturiser and joggers. The first week, we were emphatically told by our teacher, Gypsy Charms (who I later found out has a PhD in burlesque and stripping; you couldn't make my life up) that burlesque is NOT a dance form, it is a PERFORMANCE ART.... and then we proceeded to dance for an hour. We learned a traditional basic and then a modern, slightly Pussycat Dolls routine, complete with bottom-thrusting and hip wiggling and bump 'n' grind (which is basically a series of swivels and hooha thrusts), all while making the sort of facial expressions usually seen in a Carry On film circa 1972. I looked utterly ridonkulous, I missed some of the moves..... and I left feeling like the sexiest thing on earth. Christina Hendricks ain't got nothing on me.

This week we learned how to sexily remove a glove while shimmying our thang (or however many thangs we may have). The shimmying terrified me; while I have a natural sense of rhythm, nothing ever exactly moves when I want it to. My chest is usually at least half a bar behind - I move left, it goes right, I move right, it remains left, we stop to pose and I am still jiggling like a blancmange in shock. However again, no matter how stupid I looked in the mirror, I felt great. Some of the poses made me look like a geriatric with a bladder problem, others like my behind look the size of Arthur's Seat, and my face is still half blow-up doll, half terrified rabbit, but I'm improving. I'm walking differently, flirting more, and next time it is cold, watch out for my attempt to take off my cashmere gloves with my teeth before I run them all over my body.......

Fried Egg Rolls and Old Men in Shorts, or Why I Hate the Gym

Let's face it, very few people actually like going to the gym. There are people who claim they enjoy the "rush", the "buzz", the "routine", the "chance to ogle fit men in tight shorts". These people are liars. Plenty of people enjoy exercising, I myself used to kill it on the hockey field (literally. I once kicked a girl in the face. Acidentally, you understand, and her parents could totally afford the reconstructive surgery she may have needed). However, nobody likes the gym.

The usual reasons for disliking the gym are things like "it's BOOOORING" or "it's too faaaaar awaaaaay" or "I have to go rather than watch Made in Chelsea or have a social life" or "I've been a gym goer for three months now and don't seem to be any fitter" (reaches for cream cake). While all these things are to an extent true, I have decided to make a list of all the things specifically I hate about going.

1) I cannot complain that my gym is too far away; it is about 10 minutes walking at my snail-on-a-glacier speed, so going really isn't an issue. What is, however, is that on my way I have to pass a cafe called Breakfast, Brunch and Lunch which puts blackboard signs on both sides of the road so there is no ecape. Their main crime? Advertising the Filled Roll of the Day which is inevitably either Fried Egg, Fried Bacon or Fried Black Pudding (and one memorable day, all three). I love all three. I love them with a passion that is intense and bordering on the insane. Therefore you can understand why walking past such signs makes me weep and die inside.

2) Girly as it sounds, my hair. I struggle, struggle with my hair. It is thick and oddly poodle-like and while people often compliment its "mirror shine" or "glossy thickness", that only happens when I have spent many hours with hairdryer, Babyliss Big Hair, GHDs and the whole Percy & Reed haircare collection. You can imagine, then, that when I have a good hair day, it is a good day indeed. However, the gym destroys my hair. The combination of sweat, humidity and furious movement renders me flat on top and giant at the sides; sort of the ultimate hat hair hell but without a hat. I actually have to schedule gym visits for when I know my hair will look like crap (usually Day Three Hair when it could grease a wok), and that is very, very frustrating.

3) The Weights Room. I would very much like to lose weight all over and tone up completely, but one area I need to work on is my arms. They are overly flabby at the top and look something out of the Family Guy episode featuring Star Jones when her upper arms become wings and she takes off (I will try to find a link). Therefore I really wanted to do some weight work at the gym, to end up with lovely slim arms and better upper body strength. However, the weights section is always filled with men. Big, muscly, sweaty, scary men who bench press (what does that even mean)? 1000lbs easily and make screamy grunting noises while they use the rowing machines and judge me when I don't know how to use the equipment. And I can't ask any of them about how to use it because from their super-strength they all look like steroids have melted their brains anyway.

4) The creepy old men. So I was having a drink of water and a sit down (read - downing pints and collapsing with the effort) after my cycle and looked up to see a great pair of legs. And then an excellent bottom. Toned back. Quite tanned. And then.... a head of white hair and a giant bushy beard. Swear to God, the guy was about 70. I did not feel well at all after that, and he is not the only one; they are everywhere. I have nothing against the elderly exercising, it is very impressive. I just don't like them sneak-attacking me when I am low on fluids and therefore vulnerable.....

The Good-Restaurant-Fattening-Food Guide

OK, so I said in my last post that I would be continuing with the acronyms, but I'm going to leave that a couple of days and deal with the weekend, as it was the first time I'd been properly socialising over a protracted period.

So I spent Friday evening-Sunday morning away from the city on a visit to A Certain Someone, who I hadn't seen for weeks and weeks; I tried to be really good last week because I wanted to be able to eat and drink in relative freedom, at least a little bit! Also he is super-healthy and in ridiculously good shape so I don't want to let the side down, as he knows I am points-counting. We ate out three times, all of which were lovely, but not the healthiest thing ever:

Meal One - Mexican. We said no to starters, had glasses of wine rather than a bottle, and I ordered a salad. Brilliant, I thought; I won't go over my points and can have another glass of wine later, or perhaps some of ACS's Bucket of Bones (there was, like, a whole cow on that plate). However, there is a reason that Mexico is not known for its salad. This thing was like an amateur archaeologist's wet dream - that was how much I had to forage for the lettuce. There was half a block of cheese, tortilla chips, beef strips in cajun dressing, olives, guacamole, sour cream.... It was literally a mountain. I did not finish it all. Super-tasty though.

Meal Two - Country Pub. After several hours delivering leaflets for a Conservative council candidate (vote early, vote often, vote Tory!), myself along with ACS and some other volunteers went to a local pub for lunch. Breakfast was a fuzzy-head-hungover five grapes, and the ward we were flyering was not flat, so I plumped (lol) for fish and chips, though I did choose the small portion with peas. It was nom. I did not have all the chips. Somehow the tartare sauce disappeared from my plate though I have no memory of consuming it.... Not the healthiest option, but a ton of peas and the fact I wasn't at all hungry til dinner made it a winner. Sort of.

Meal Three - Indian. We drove a few towns over in the evening to go to the M&S for the Dine In For Two deal; their Count On Us range has ProPoints marked on the back for ease, it is so soooper. However, we drive past restaurant after restaurant aaaaand M&S is shut, so on his recommendation, we go to a great curry place. Again, no starter and I went easy on the poppadoms (OMG SUCH A CHALLENGE I used to eat a packet of eight from Tesco in one sitting. Eurgh), though perhaps a creamy korma wasn't the best plan. Along with two glasses of looovely pinot grigio. And another one at the pub. And some cava back at his house. And alcohol really messes with fat-burning. Gah.

On the whole, not my best. However, I managed not to use all my weekly points, got a decent amount of exercise and began to learn not to beat myself up over any little slip-ups as long as I have enough fruit, veg, water and exercise generally.

So, next, I must continue my acronyms, post about goals met so far and deal with the fact that however well I seem to be doing, it's an epic struggle and a half a lot of the time; cake is calling my name......