The rest of Saturday was a disaster. And I don’t use that term lightly. Well actually I do, but this truly was a supersonic shithouse Saturday.
The afternoon wasn’t so bad. I joined my sisters and laughed at my Mum as she modeled plus size clothing for a friends charity event and clothing auction. She was wearing a size 12, so not really plus size. However when the designer told us that 65% of women were a size 14 and over, and less than 10% of labels designed exclusively for them, I wanted to point out that maybe a few of the 65% could benefit from a healthier, cleaner form of eating and maybe some exercise to broaden their clothing choice.
Not even the full 30 days in and already I am Miss Proud and Predigest, looking down at others.
I know, it was a bitchy thought and I probably only thought it to make myself feel better. I was even a little shocked at how quickly I had become ‘one of those’ people, preaching and looking down at others.
I pinched myself for being such a cow and tried to ignore how hungry I was.
During the break, where we were all encouraged to go through piles of op-shop rescued clothing we could purchase for gold coins that would help an African orphanage, I ignored all the homemade cakes on the table and went straight for the carrot and celery sticks.
Now I know I just chastised myself for being a bitch, but slight side comment – if those 14 and above sized women are healthy then good on them, no issue. But I tell you not many of them by-passed the chocolate biscuits and not one piece of orange cake was left standing after the first wave went by… In fact, the only friend’s carrot and celery had was me and even I copped a few elbows as the Grandmothers went after the homemade scones.
That night I was I off to the football. To the biggest rivalry we have each year. To Hawthorn versus Geelong.
For dinner I prepared a chicken breast no crumb completely paleo schnitzel from Cannings, and while my fellow footy goers stuffed theirs between some salad, a piece of cheese and a wholemeal roll, I substituted the roll for a bowl and packed a nice chicken salad.
I kept away from the bar. All night. Even as Geelong scored goal after goal and I pulled my hair out in frustration at our poor kicking and rushed decision-making. When my brother text me to meet him their at half time I declined. Too stressed over the game to discuss it amongst everyone else who held beers.
The worst thing was, even worse than the footy score – so yes it was bad – was the cramping and aching in my legs and hips.
I know I hadn’t stretched enough post boxing, and had really tried in CFHE WOD on Friday to use my hips (something all coaches know I am terrible at) but the pain that was radiating from my pelvis through both legs – the left in particular was worse than Tuesday’s headache and Friday nights sugar withdrawals.
Of course the football did nothing to take my mind off the pain.
I stomped and stretched and stood up and walked during each break – as much out of pain as out of nervous energy, but nothing would shake the ache.
I never even finished my salad.
By the time the final siren sounded and I had walked back to the car, I was almost limping and could barley stand on my left leg thanks to cramp.
And of course to make matters worse, I had just sat through my 11th straight loss to Geelong – which is always painful enough.
By now, I was seriously hoping it was all part of the ‘change’ my body is going through – and no I am not talking late puberty, early menopause or anything else you might be thinking – but that it is some random side effect of something I am doing right.
Either that or I was being punished by some of the 65% of women who think I am a bitch.
I massaged some tension relief cream into my legs and managed to fall asleep around midnight, and thank god when I awoke a) I had not been attacked by some biscuit eating strange size 18 women, and b) the pain in my legs was gone.
The only downside, last night’s footy result was still well and truly one I could not forget.
So Saturday scared me a little. The pain in my legs and hips scared me, and my ‘too quick to judge’ attitude also scared me.
So Sunday when I again braved eating out for my sister-in-laws birthday and the restaurant served me a piece of whiting the size of my pinkie with a side salad for lunch and tried to charge me $18 for the pleasure of wanting to eat the rest of my hand off for hunger – I said nothing.
I swallowed the fish in two or three mouthfuls and had downed the salad before others had even received their meals.
Really? I waned to ask the Polish waitress as she came over to top up my mineral water. I mean just because I am Paleo doesn’t mean I eat like a bird, and we all know the saying – you don’t make friends with salad.
Instead I smiled and eyed off Nephews pumpkin soup that lay untouched while he threw a two-year old tantrum and wondered if they had added cream or potato to the mix and if not, was he going to eat that?
Maybe the Polish waitress was a size 16 in disguise or something, because nothing this weekend was going right.
For dinner that night I decided to take back control by the only way I knew how – to cook my own meals. Organic free range roast pork with sweet potato and salad. TICK TICK TICK and no need to think about eating my hand or arm or any other body part.
When my sweet tooth kicked in as tinned mangoes and yoghurt was served to everyone around me, I chewed silently on a green apple, and to be honest, was quite happy.
And then, finally, the first weekend of the 30-day challenge was behind me – THANK GOD.