I've started to do a trot round the park every other morning in an attempt to avoid my buttocks taking over the world. When I say trot what I really mean is that I sort of stumble and shuffle my way around the park, stopping to wheeze now and then whilst pretending to contort myself into the sort of complicated stretching positions that the more seasoned runners do so effortlessly.
I don't think I'm fooling anyone, in fact I seem to get a lot of scornful looks from females more toned of limb and glossy of hair than I (probably French Mamans, I should think, but kinda hard to tell when attired in lycra) but at least I'm trying. That's got to count for something, right?
The actual effort of getting myself around the park (all 3.5k of it, gah) is not at all enjoyable, nor is the searing pain experienced in the darkest recesses of my thighs for 48 hours afterwards, but there is one unexpected and totally delightful highlight - early morning in the park is a Class A people-watching paradise.
The local Emirati ladies are the most interesting as they walk and even jog around the park wearing full abaya and hejjab. Let's face it, jogging is hard enough at the best of times but doing it while draped in voluminous lengths of dark cloth? That's hardcore. And they even look cheerful while doing it. Hats off, ladies.
Some of the Western women look almost obscene in contrast. At one extreme are the teeny tiny short shorts and running bras worn by the more hard-bodied. The slightly wobbly tend to favour leggings or long shorts and a vest. The can't-be-bothered (i.e. me) wear whatever falls out of their wardrobe, such as a ratty pair of trackies and an old t-shirt belonging to Alpha. Which is probably why the French Mamans snort in disgust as I limp past, simultaneously tensing their rock-hard miniscule buttocks in horror just in case Fashion Crime is a disease... in which case I'm obviously highly contagious.
While vanity and showing off their perky posteriors appears to be a key motivator for the women, running is a testosterone-fuelled pastime for the blokes. I've lost count of the times I've spotted guys trying to make the other eat their dust, kind of like two Porches trying to burn the other off at the traffic lights. Yesterday a rather feminine looking chap - he had a very 'prancy' run and looked a bit like Bambi - totally humiliated an Arnie-style hunk o' man. It was beautiful. I nearly choked.
But one of the more unusual sights I've seen recently was an older Indian man wearing his regular clothes - jeans, shirt buttoned to the neck, lace-up leather shoes - sprinting at top speed around the park. It looked like he was taking exercise rather than trying to evade a pursuer, he was holding a bottle of water and plugged into what looked like an MP3 player, but I guess you can never be sure.
The excitement of my morning amble; it's better than the telly. You never know, this could become my new addiction...
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
The benefits of non-smoking
This non-smoking lark has thus far failed to impress me. Not only do I find it really tricky to write anything bar the most banal email without a ciggie clenched in my desperate fist - hence my disappearance from the blog for the last few days - but all kinds of horrid vanity-shocker things are happening. Such as:
- Impaired cognitive function
- my brain has turned into cream cheese, even more so than usual... Did cigarettes actually make me more clever (as I once claimed to a smug anti-smoking type after a bottle of wine) or is this just a temporary fuzz brought on by the nicotine deficit?
- The worst of both worlds
- my skin thinks it belongs to a teenager - spots?? At my age! NO FAIR! Plus there's also my wrinkles and crinkles to contend with. Granny furrows + teenage zits = no wonder I'm confused.
- Get thee to fat camp
- I have gained a grand total of 4 kilos in one mouldy week. None of my skirts will do up and my jeans have turned into a great big denim wedgie. Am sitting in front of the laptop in track pants. Miserable zitty crinkle face + trackpants + steadily increasing arse = not a pretty sight. Suspect Alpha will be serving divorce papers any moment now.
- Fit as a fiddle?
- The one thing I would have thought would be guaranteed would be better lungs, but no, I am still coughing and still incapable of running more than 50m without spotty wrinkly face turning the colour of a tomato and mouth impersonating a seen-better-days steam engine. I am still the laughing stock of the Safa Park jogging track yet can no longer console myself with the thought of a nice restorative ciggie waiting for me in the car. Bah.
- A more serene new me
- Everyone (i.e. all those blo*dy liars out there) told me that I would feel much more serene, free of the tyranny of the ciggies and therefore more even-tempered. I had a vision of myself turning into one of those washing powder advert mums, y'know, those paragons of mummyhood who wash muddy footie kit with a sweet smile before having a quick boogie in the buttercups during the spin cycle. Well, I might be smoke-free but am certainly not feeling balanced or in any way happy; in fact I've been throwing insane Mummy Tantrums at the smallest provocation. Kids have stopped speaking just in case they spark me off and Alpha is making himself very scarce indeed. This morning I had a hissy fit about a hair clip. Yesterday it was someone leaving the lid off my favorite pen. What next? The grass being the wrong shade of green? The straightjacket not being a flattering cut? My walls of my cell not quite padded enough? Sigh...
Friday, November 13, 2009
The strange confusion of the Dubai Hangover
It is an odd thing, being hungover in Dubai. I would, in fact, go as far to say that it is strangely unlike any hangover I have ever had in any other part of the world. For some reason, the tiniest drop of booze consumed here has a more drastic effect than one would reasonably expect the next day.
Conspiracy theorists may venture that some radical group is adding anti-freeze to the al-kool sold here in an attempt to punish the heathen ex-pats for their wild and lairy ways. Although legend has it that the Australians have been doing this to their grown-up grape juice for years (albeit for less moral reasons, perhaps) and it hasn't exactly harmed their consumption (or sales), has it?
Another theory would be that because Dubai has such a hot climate the effects of dehydration are much worse than in more temperate climes. This would make a lot of sense except for the fact that I am very careful to drink as much water as my skin will hold (plus an extra large glass before bed for luck) and still invariably wake up with an evil rager the next day.
It's a mystery. The only solution is a large stock of Alka Seltzer and/or sobriety.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
YLM turns into a non-smoking b*tch on wheels
Earlier this week I announced that I was thinking about stopping my depraved sucking of the tar-sticks. 20 years or so of having been in the thrall of ciggies is quite embarrassing, not to mention having recently developed a cough that should live in a much older body. So thinking quickly turned into doing - I took the bull by the horns and chucked out my last pack of Marlboro Lights.
I can confidently announce that so far, all of two days and a bit in, I bitterly regret such tomfoolery. Whatever made me think such madness? And why the Hell did I act on it?
It's official. Giving up smoking really, really sucks.
Apart from the physical symptoms, which are not pleasant, the psychological nagging is hard to bear. Imagine a small malevolent beast living in your ear, constantly whispering in a nastly smug little voice: oooh go on, just have one. Just light up. Think about how yummy it will be, hmmm. Anyway, you don't really want to give up do you? I know how much you like it, especially that lovely first one of the day which makes your head go all tingly. Anyway, you owe us, you can't live without us - we've been with you through thick and thin, we have, from when you were a teenager learning to smoke with the French exchange student... we consoled you when you split up with boyfriends, helped you through the nerves of exams and job interviews, made all those parties go with a swing, we even came back to you after you rejected us during your two pregnancies... we've been with you for ever! And this is how you think to repay us?? You'll see, you'll get really fat and you'll be boring without your friends the ciggies. What makes you think you'll be able to give up anyway? You'll come back! You'll come crawling back! You'll be begging forgiveness! You'll never get aaaawwwwwaaayyyyy!
And what's worse is that I have turned into an impossible raging cowbag. Alpha hates me after having to listen to me go on and on about how he doesn't understand my pain and how my giving up smoking is much worse than when he gave up because he used anti-smoking drugs which I'm allergic to and so I can't enjoy taking the same soft and easy option blah blah blah de blah. Firstborn went to school this morning looking profoundly depressed after a particularly vitriolic outburst on my part and the Small(er) One keeps patting me while saying things like: "You'll feel better soon Mummy, you're just cross 'cos you're giving up the smoking, you'll be a nice mummy again soon".
It's the rage, you see, that's the real problem. It wells up whenever I get stressed (the point at which I would usually reach for the ciggies) and I can't seem to control it. I hope it goes soon because at this rate I am going to end up all alone in a dark room with nobody to talk to except the malevolent monster, and he isn't exactly a brilliant conversationalist.
I can confidently announce that so far, all of two days and a bit in, I bitterly regret such tomfoolery. Whatever made me think such madness? And why the Hell did I act on it?
It's official. Giving up smoking really, really sucks.
Apart from the physical symptoms, which are not pleasant, the psychological nagging is hard to bear. Imagine a small malevolent beast living in your ear, constantly whispering in a nastly smug little voice: oooh go on, just have one. Just light up. Think about how yummy it will be, hmmm. Anyway, you don't really want to give up do you? I know how much you like it, especially that lovely first one of the day which makes your head go all tingly. Anyway, you owe us, you can't live without us - we've been with you through thick and thin, we have, from when you were a teenager learning to smoke with the French exchange student... we consoled you when you split up with boyfriends, helped you through the nerves of exams and job interviews, made all those parties go with a swing, we even came back to you after you rejected us during your two pregnancies... we've been with you for ever! And this is how you think to repay us?? You'll see, you'll get really fat and you'll be boring without your friends the ciggies. What makes you think you'll be able to give up anyway? You'll come back! You'll come crawling back! You'll be begging forgiveness! You'll never get aaaawwwwwaaayyyyy!
And what's worse is that I have turned into an impossible raging cowbag. Alpha hates me after having to listen to me go on and on about how he doesn't understand my pain and how my giving up smoking is much worse than when he gave up because he used anti-smoking drugs which I'm allergic to and so I can't enjoy taking the same soft and easy option blah blah blah de blah. Firstborn went to school this morning looking profoundly depressed after a particularly vitriolic outburst on my part and the Small(er) One keeps patting me while saying things like: "You'll feel better soon Mummy, you're just cross 'cos you're giving up the smoking, you'll be a nice mummy again soon".
It's the rage, you see, that's the real problem. It wells up whenever I get stressed (the point at which I would usually reach for the ciggies) and I can't seem to control it. I hope it goes soon because at this rate I am going to end up all alone in a dark room with nobody to talk to except the malevolent monster, and he isn't exactly a brilliant conversationalist.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Aussie rules
It seems my character assassinations of the different types of mum to be found in Dubai have been quite popular (new readers, see here, here, here, here and here) . In reponse to recent requests for more, here's a shameless stereotype of one of my favorites, the Australian Mum:
Australian mum is pretty keen on Dubai. After all, it's kinda like home except that Australia is chokka with poisonous beasties, so that's a bonus right there. Only issue is that living in such safety might make the nippers a bit soft but a yearly trip back to Oz for a spot of camping in the Outback armed with nothing more than a billycan and a prayer should sort that right out. Plus rumour has it there's an infestation of the venomous Australian red-back spider up in Dubai's Emirates Hills, which just adds to the excitement (not to mention acting as a reminder of home sweet home).
Oz Mum is made of sturdy stuff, the harsh beauty of Australia having necessitated a ramped-up natural selection process resulting in a hardy modern-day breed of stout-hearted and strong-limbed lovelies. OzM can be identified by her bronzed skin, sun-bleached hair, super-healthy glow and wide range of surf clobber. As good-natured and boisterous as her tribe of tousle-haired kiddies, her head is usually flung back in a belly laugh and her hand flung out mid-back-slap.
Rarely one to be found taking a doona day, Oz Mum's approach to life is practical, enthusiastic and usually taken at break-neck speed. Ill-health, over-analysis and self-pity are for drongos - she's as fit as a butcher's dog and can't understand anybody prone to peering at their own navels. Her natural habitat is the beach, where she partakes in death-defying sports with a vigour that shames all present (especially the Pommies who OzM secretly despises due to their addiction to grumbling, their inability to cope with too much sun and their unswerving tendency towards politeness).
OzM is always up for a ripper time and, when not out on the beach encouraging the rug-rats to fling themselves into giant waves, can be found cracking a few coldies with the old man and her huge gang of mates. She's the sort of woman you want on your side but her selection process is hard to breach unless you're as laid back, straight-talking and energetic as she is. OzM's entirely devoid of subtlety or bitchiness so you'll always know where you are with her - if you don't make the grade then she'll make it perfectly clear she doesn't have time for you but she won't harp on or make snide comments to her mates. Life's simply too short to waste time on ratbags like you. But if you do make it and become one of the gang you'll be rewarded with regular bear hugs and the best barbies this side of the equator for years to come.
Frankly, you've got to admire a woman of such Amazonian proportions and larger-than-life character. Even if she does cause all lesser female mortals to limp weakly off to their shrinks to deal with their sudden feelings of inadequacy...
Australian mum is pretty keen on Dubai. After all, it's kinda like home except that Australia is chokka with poisonous beasties, so that's a bonus right there. Only issue is that living in such safety might make the nippers a bit soft but a yearly trip back to Oz for a spot of camping in the Outback armed with nothing more than a billycan and a prayer should sort that right out. Plus rumour has it there's an infestation of the venomous Australian red-back spider up in Dubai's Emirates Hills, which just adds to the excitement (not to mention acting as a reminder of home sweet home).
Oz Mum is made of sturdy stuff, the harsh beauty of Australia having necessitated a ramped-up natural selection process resulting in a hardy modern-day breed of stout-hearted and strong-limbed lovelies. OzM can be identified by her bronzed skin, sun-bleached hair, super-healthy glow and wide range of surf clobber. As good-natured and boisterous as her tribe of tousle-haired kiddies, her head is usually flung back in a belly laugh and her hand flung out mid-back-slap.
Rarely one to be found taking a doona day, Oz Mum's approach to life is practical, enthusiastic and usually taken at break-neck speed. Ill-health, over-analysis and self-pity are for drongos - she's as fit as a butcher's dog and can't understand anybody prone to peering at their own navels. Her natural habitat is the beach, where she partakes in death-defying sports with a vigour that shames all present (especially the Pommies who OzM secretly despises due to their addiction to grumbling, their inability to cope with too much sun and their unswerving tendency towards politeness).
OzM is always up for a ripper time and, when not out on the beach encouraging the rug-rats to fling themselves into giant waves, can be found cracking a few coldies with the old man and her huge gang of mates. She's the sort of woman you want on your side but her selection process is hard to breach unless you're as laid back, straight-talking and energetic as she is. OzM's entirely devoid of subtlety or bitchiness so you'll always know where you are with her - if you don't make the grade then she'll make it perfectly clear she doesn't have time for you but she won't harp on or make snide comments to her mates. Life's simply too short to waste time on ratbags like you. But if you do make it and become one of the gang you'll be rewarded with regular bear hugs and the best barbies this side of the equator for years to come.
Frankly, you've got to admire a woman of such Amazonian proportions and larger-than-life character. Even if she does cause all lesser female mortals to limp weakly off to their shrinks to deal with their sudden feelings of inadequacy...
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