Spring has hit Durban in such a huge way that I'm peeing myself with glee almost hourly. I love this weather. I love my city. I love the beach. And I love those nubile men that frequent the beach such that I'm welcoming lust-induced hot flushes like you cannot believe.
Only one small problem: the Winter covering. Seriously. I hit the beach last Sunday and spent so much time focusing on sucking my stomach in and taunting all muscles to prevent wobble that I almost didn't have enough brain capacity left to ogle the hottie-hot pantses with which Durban seems to find itself awash. Almost.
You see, I love the beach. So much. I love that a big pair of sunglasses can easily hide my lecherous eyes. I love that the sun and the sweat can mask the flushed cheeks that are often a result of imagined couplings with the fine pickings who taunt me by running their surfboard abs around in hot pursuit of rugby balls right in front of my very own eyes. I love that I can make use of The Daughter to get a little closer to said specimens by nonchalantly kicking her ball in their direction, and then playing dutiful mother by running Baywatch-style into their games. "So sorry guys," I say.
But at the moment, I'm deprived of said tactic because me, running would not look dissimilar to Ruby Wax on one of those vibrating machines. (On the subject of those vibrating machines, I've been told they've got them in gyms and that women actually go on them. Now, forgive me from being crude, but I've been on one of these machines. I was accompanied by Cape Town Hairdresser and his then-boyfriend. And after a few minutes of all over vibration, I had to ask the guys to give me a spot of privacy. And people do this in public? The mind boggles.)
So, this week I've embarked on some damage control. I've purchased a skipping rope and dumbells (what I'm going to do with those I don't know) and I've started eating healthy. I'm not sure it's going all that well.
Sunday Evening: Go for cycle on promenade with Sil. Am chuffed with self for exercising on Sunday evening. Reward self with fried fish.
Monday: Have planned ahead of time. Reward self with large slice of cake at tea time. Dress at work into running attire, collect Daughter from school, drive directly to beachfront and attempt to run beside cycling child. Get the shits that child's ability to cycle at speed is diminished by what is essentially the thinnest pair of legs known to mankind. Go to Mozart's order self two scoops of ice-cream.
Tuesday: Wake up early to prepare self healthy lunch. Cut up bits of cucumber, carrot, celery, pack baby tomatoes. Make self guacomole with abundance of avos found in fridge. Season with juice of half a lemon. Decide that will be thrifty with lemon and reserve it for much needed gin and dry lemons when I return from work. Make good on promise to self.
Wednesday: Decide that the welcoming of period deserves to be celebrated with both food and wine. Eat about 60 000 calories but remind self that Period endured without refined sugars and unhealthy fats may result in someone's murder. Convince self that eating in abundance is an act of charity towards greater mankind.
Thursday: Wake up feeling revolting. Consider taking up anorexia to deal with guilt of previous day's overindulgence whilst munching on delicious muesli no doubt made with corn syrup. Decide will continue to eat in gluttonous fashion but will make use of skipping rope. Attempt to skip in work attire but find self splayed across bedroom floor one too many times. Change into gym attire but feel slightly embarrassed that may be somewhat like 80's women who did aerobics in lounge. Am thankful that am single and that all sets of keys to my house are in my possession. Set alarm clock for 10 minutes. Begin skipping. Worry that may lose lung. Continue skipping. Wonder if boobs will droop. Stop skipping. Dress in sports' bra. Continue skipping. Realise that will not survive full ten minutes. Begin drafting final letter to my loved ones in my head. Finish 10 minutes. Lie on floor panting like have just had session with Jake Gyllenhall. Decide that only way to deal with post-exercise nausea is to do sit-ups. Do twenty. Realise have lost mind and must find it by drinking ice-cold beer.
Friday: Eat healthy food in anticipation of large glass of wine that must be drunk with The Incubator as the world has problems and these need to be solved. Get into world problem solving. Forget to stop drinking wine.
Saturday: Wake up feeling as though brain is swollen and that skull no longer fits. Wonder if skull transplant is option. Decide best way to deal with hangover is to immerse self entirely in bacon and egg fat. Feel worse. Realise have lunch plans with Uncle whose primary focus in life is cooking and liquor. Eat fish in every form and drain many glasses of wine. Leave glad at having worn flat shoes but with mammoth desire for Oreo McFlurry at 10pm.
Sunday: Wake up and realise that brain has in fact put on weight and skull, like multitude of last season's clothes, is fitting a touch snugly. Realise, also, that is Bok Day and thus throw self again headfirst into breakfast and team said breakfast with Castle Lite. Sun is shining but make no attempt to go to beach.
Bikini body: easier said than done.