Wobbly bits

I used to love my granny's skin.  She was the softest person I've ever met.  And she had very wobbly arms that I loved to play with.  I don't have the same warm feeling when I see my arms move that way!

In fact, I have noticed that I have grown quite jelly-like over this winter.  It was those damned doughnuts at the coffee counter outside Woolworths!  I am tempted (in the spirit of this blog) to take some pictures of me in my knickers and show you what I look like at the moment.  I think most of you would either gasp or shriek!  But I think my son would simply fall to pieces if he knew that people could see me with skant clothing on on the internet.  So we'll keep the picture for when I look a little less flacid! 

So how do I deal with this post-winter-stress-disorder.

I've joined the gym. 

I currently weigh in at a chunky 78kgs, which 9kgs heavier than this time last year (which was when I had the kidney stone and did the fast).  I'm not big on scales.  I developed an allergy to them when I was in my teens, and my peers were comparing notes in kilograms.  The numerous diets and weight loss programs that I was encouraged/forced to engage with really spiked my reaction to them, so they have been avoided where ever possible.

But I cannot dispute that they are a good gauge for someone like me who enjoys the ostrich approach to the creeping weight syndrome.  I generally ingore all the symptoms, the following indicators being the most telling.  We have "the pants must be loosened after dinner","the bra strap stopping blood flow to the arms", and my all time favourite "the belt has shrunk!"


So gym it is.  I'll track and share my progress.

I have decided to view my extra padding as more of a fun project than a teeth gnashing excercise this time. 

I now imagine this body without a shock wave reaction when I move!

When are we successful?

I am intrigued by success stories, rags to riches, sickness to health, born in a trailer park, becomes a multi-millionaire.... and all that jazz.

And there is no better way of evaluating self success than running one's own business.  This activity has made me question many things.  What is the goal, what is the aim?  When am I successful?  How is the business preceived by others?  Do people see me as an expert in my field?  Does any of this matter?  And so it goes on.

I have recently ditched it all for a much more interesting and fun perspective.  How little time can I spend on the business and still maintain a handle on how well it is run and keep the standard of the product up to scratch.


I was taught from a young age that working hard is one of the finest attributes, first at the office, last to leave.  Sacrifice your family life and you will be rewarded.  So I swallowed and took it for 20 years as I accepted my 15 days leave per annum, worked as hard as I could every day, often working late into the night, with not much of a mission except to show the people around me that I was a hard worker.


What a bunch of bollox!

It is amazing how the words in a book can change one's perception, and two books have done that for me this year, namely the E-Myth by Michael Gerber and The Four Hour Work Week by Timothy Ferris.

I have been duped.  From now on if it doesn't bring me pleasure or make me money, I'm either not doing it, or I'll out source it!

Outsourcing is the most fabulously obvious way for us to have more time to do the things we want to do.  Let me set the record straight right here. I'm not encouraging anyone to become a lazy arsed slacker, just the opposite in fact.  All I'm suggesting is "Why do the things you don't enjoy when you can pay someone to do them who does enjoy it"?

Take spreadsheets for example.  Not my thing, but I have a crack squad of spreadsheet developers on board with me.  We all meet once a week, I give the brief and the team makes it happen.  I get to use that time to write my blog and create delicious recipes.  My team gets to eat beautiful food when they are here, we test new recipes on their taste buds. Win win.  In only a few hours I have the sexiest buying, packing and recipe sheets, all my quantities and pricing are sorted and worked out.  Outsourcing.  My new favourite word.


So now I measure my success in how much time I have to dedicate to other interesting things in my life, not on how many hours I'm burning the midnight oil!  And I am so done telling everyone how hard I work and how tough it is.  No.  People, I only work a few hours a week, I check my mail once a day and don't expect a call back within the hour.

Hg free

I have often wondered whether we ever truly heal.  There is always some kind of scar.  It can be big and lumpy, or small and dicreet, but there nonetheless. Once a part of ourselves is scarred, can we ever reclaim it?  It becomes more of an issue of management.

This was highlighted to me over the past few weeks.  I have been having some dental work done, mercury out, some other white stuff in. 

There is something about the memory of physical pain that floors me.  Takes me straight back to the original event.  And dental work is right up there with my most painful experiences.

When I was about six, I had a rough dentist who hurt me, so I bit him and then refused to open my mouth.  The result was a hiding and a threat about "open my mouth or else".  So, new dentist, trying to inject me (how enormous is that syringe? was it designed like that on purpose?) and then the glass vile exploding in my mouth, the anesthetic dripping down my throat, I can hardly breath, the glass is sucked up, .... I must lie still or else... and so a very terrifying experience is imprinted onto my small being. 

Now some years later, I find out that I have a mouth full of mercury which should be removed as it is probably leeching into my brain and causing some of the dementia I am prone to.

So basically, I have to go through the same god-awful experience again, just because some genius decided that the mouth was an intelligent place to store the planet's supply of mercury.

After three years of back peddling and excuses, I made an appointment to see a dentist.  First appointment, always a breeze, all they do is have a look.  Five fillings, all leeching.  Fucking beautiful.

It must be hard to be a dentist.  No-one really wants to see you.  You are probably the least loved of all in the medical profession.  So if anyone out there is terrified, go and check out Dr Mo Karodia. 

He is a small unassuming man with a gentle voice and a sweet face.  This is a good start.  I like him at first sight.  He chats about this and that, taking your focus away from those dreadful pointy things that cause the nightmares. 

He talks of his parents from Persia and his desire to change dentistry to less more careful decisions around drilling and extractions.  He does not perform root canals.  Hey I'm liking the guy.  He can probably see from my uncontrolable convulsions that I am fairly nervous.  I puts his hand on my shoulder and speaks soothingly.  His nurse also helps by holding my hand as he administers the anesthetic.  And my rock, Noel, is there too, supporting me as always through my tough times.

The first session was full on.  I regressed onto the small six year old in the chair, uncontrollable sobbing, body jolts and spasms through most of the session.  I had the aid of an iPod to try and drown out the sound of drilling and coax me into a more relaxed state.  The glasses and oxygen all help.  I could hardly see or hear anything, just the vibrations of the drill keep me twitching...

After the third session, I feel as though I have dealt with some major past trauma.  Dr Mo is a really good dentist and I feel comfortable sitting in that chair, knowing that he will take good care of me not inflict unnecessary pain. 

Yet I still remember the feeling of lying in that chair all those years ago, and waiting for the pain to come.  I remember the feeling of being totally helpless, that the big people told me that this was going to be for my own good.  How I have carried that fear with me all these years.  A deep scar in my being.