I like big ‘buts’ and I cannot lie.

(Yes, I’m back. For now.)

So after a rather successful first week back into it… I lost 1.6kg.


Didn’t really do much except not eat ALL THE THINGS.

Not even any exercise. That’s a nice ease back into the new routine.

I was like, “Sh-t?! REALLY?! Not eating ALL THE THINGS works?”

“Yes,” said Scales, “Not eating ALL THE THINGS works.”


You knew there was a ‘but’ coming. Go on. Look at that ‘but’.


My out-laws arrived for a five-day stay.

And they believe in things like happy hour and entrees and nibbles and big dinners…


So I ate.


And Scales snickered and asked in that low, smirky kind of way, “You ate ALL THE THINGS again, didn’t you?”

And I answered “Fuck off, Scales.”

But Scales was not done yet.

“Look at that,” Scales flashed with barely suppressed, unmitigated evil glee. “LOOK. You gained 3kg. IN FIVE DAYS.”

And, a little more quietly, guiltily, I said, “Fuck off, Scales.”

Actually, it was the Tuesday night (when we went out to a Greek restaurant in Williamstown and I would eat a MOUTAIN of well-cooked flesh) that I had hit a new low-high. My size 16s don’t fit anymore. My size 18s (the things I recently bought to be my interim “fat pants”) are wearable but way too tight.

I reached up into the top of the wardrobe and pulled down a pair of size 20s.


I never wanted to see that fucking number again, but there it was.

I put them on and they were snug but comfy and I cried with a mixture of regret, heartache and relief.

Regret that I had not had more self control this past 12 months when everything seemed to go pear-shaped health-wise, heartache because I never wanted to be at this place again and yet, here I was, and finally relief; because without pants I would have been going to dinner naked and ain’t nobody should have to deal with that.

So this weekend I took stock, ate a little more (and enjoyed it), weighed myself again, put in all the numbers and climbed back on that fat-arse horse.

Seriously, bugger the wagon. I can scare the horse into submission by threatening to eat it.

I mean beat it.

Nah, ‘eat’ sounds better.

I am tracking everything again too – my phone reminds me to make sure I track. I was actually really guilty that I didn’t track this weekend and I kept getting beeped by my phone saying, “Helloooooo.. have you tracked today? I know you haven’t tracked today otherwise you wouldn’t be getting this notification! Helloooooo! YOU NEVER CALL! I only spent SEVENTEEN days in labour trying to give birth to you! NOBODY LOVES ME!!*”

Yeup. That WW app does guilt like the Jewish mother I never had.

*True story. I was 17 days late. Shut up. I was comfy.

No I won’t “suck it up”.

You see me whine on Facebook about being sore and tired. You sit there and smile knowingly or roll your eyes because you’re a gym-goer too. Or a runner. Or a crossfitter. Or an otherwise Tough Mudderfucker, but you’re not me. You know all about muscle soreness and recovery and optimal heart rates and that fabled exercise high.

You think you can say certain things to me that I will react positively to – because we’re friends.


I’ve just started back at the gym and back into regular exercise after watching my weight change eight kilograms in the wrong direction. For someone who was already around 102kg and has fought tooth and nail to get down from 152kg, that’s a scary number to see again. So I’m back at the gym. I’d love to go back to my personal trainer but even at $20 for a session (and I feel I need at least three sessions a week to be worth anything to me health-wise), I can’t afford it. So I do it on my own and try to do a good, honest job of pushing myself.

But you know what? This shit’s hard.

So, yeah, I complain.

Occasionally, like today, I write a mildly amusing-to-me comment on Facebook expressing my current hatred of whoever invented gyms and that I was sore and that I was going to make myself sorer by subjecting my body to yet another session of physical torture known as working out.

What I got in response, among other things, was being told to “harden up, princess” and “suck it up, cupcake”.

Ha ha, right? Really funny. Ren’s just whinging again. Let’s poke fun at her. She won’t mind.

She does mind.

OH BOY, she does.

Yes, she is whinging again but she just needs a little support. Sometimes she needs to be coddled because, heaven forbid, she’s feeling more than a little fucking delicate at that moment. She might actually need for someone to remind her why she am doing this when she hurts from repeated sessions of “sucking it up” and to keep going when tears of actual physical pain are mixing with sweat.

I do “suck it up”.

I am “hard”.

And you will hear/see/read me complain because that’s what I do when I’m feeling bad. Because, fuck you, I want someone to tell me that this IS WORTH IT.

What you don’t see or hear about is the way my hip joints grind so painfully the day after a particularly hard session of squats and treadmill work that I can feel the sensation of it in my back teeth. What you don’t see or hear about is the way my lower back throbs for days because I was stupid and just so happy to be moving that I forgot the “Ren can’t run or jump” rule but did burpees, star jumps and jogged in place on solid concrete for ten minutes.

So DON’T tell me to harden up. I do this shit in SPITE of how much I suffer for it in the days following.

I have to balance what I do in order to be able to walk the next day (if not the next hour) because I’ve got other shit I need to “suck it up” for and get done.

I love my friends but sometimes I really want to smack them up the back of the head.

With a shovel.

Words to live by.

So… then THIS happened…

Yes, that is me.

That is me doing a push-up. Yes, my form is bad and I have to reset for every attempt. But look at me, I’m doing a no-knees push-up.

Actually, more than one.

I did several. And I’ve done several more since.

The voice directing me is the heart-breakingly wonderful Kim from MET FITNESS in Cheltenham, Victoria. She brought me goodies on Sunday in the form of yoga blocks and a DVD showing the techniques she uses to help other folk like me. There are no words to describe how great Kim is. How funny, smart, sensitive and simply AWESOME. I am so glad to have met her through another lovely friend. She is such a positive light.

You know those people who just bring a sense of calm and peace and joy to a space just by walking in? Kim’s one of those. And she’s lovely.

At the moment, this is my happy.

You know what? I’m still fat but I’m way stronger than I thought. My naffed-up back and hips will not rule me. I will chip away until I am comfortable in my skin, wherever that may be on the scales or the measuring tape.

My goal is to do twenty of those without stopping to reset.

I’m working on it.

I can do this. I CAN do this.