......or, did satifaction make it fat? Discuss.
Last week, in the doctor's waiting room, I tried out one of those height/weight/BMI/bloodpressure/pulse rate/bra size/ hair colour measuring machines. It reminded me of the contraption used by the Clarke's shop assistant to measure my feet for new school shoes. After a few satisfying whirrs and beeps, out popped a receipt bearing my vital statistics. OK, so maybe it didn't show the size of my boobs or reveal my hair's greyness percentage, but it did tell me that I'd lost 2cm and gained 2 kilos. Yahoo!
For me, weight gain is a struggle. I know that makes me unpopular with a lot of women who have the opposite problem: to some, it's acceptable to call me a 'skinny bitch' ; others, who haven't witnessed my appetite, assume I am anorexic; holidays involving bikinis have been avoided by one or two. I wonder how those women would feel if I addressed them as 'fat cows', or assumed that their extra weight was acquired through greed or laziness. Perhaps I was nervous about my petite breasts being compared to my friend's ample cleavage, but I wouldn't let it ruin a potentially great trip away.
Anyway, the fact that I have put on some beef lately, comes as welcome news. Firstly, I can fill my bras without the need for 'chicken fille
ts' and secondly, when I'm holding The Bow position my hip and pubis bones don't dig into the yoga mat quite so painfully. I actually get quite excited when I see the beginnings of a 'muffin-top' spilling over the top of my jeans and it takes longer for my skin to turn blue when I'm out in the cold.
ts' and secondly, when I'm holding The Bow position my hip and pubis bones don't dig into the yoga mat quite so painfully. I actually get quite excited when I see the beginnings of a 'muffin-top' spilling over the top of my jeans and it takes longer for my skin to turn blue when I'm out in the cold. These physical signs are evidence of my improving mental state. Prior to the popping of my first happy pill, I was warned that I may put on a few pounds, however the drug had the opposite effect on me. I have been able to resign the medication to the back of the drawer because my curiosity about a few things has been satisfied.
Upon consideration of the evidence, it would be reasonable to say that, in this case, satisfying one's curiosities does lead to fatness. It does not however, take into account the notion of curiosity being fatal. This will be discussed in the next blog.
Until then, why not think about what gives YOU satisfaction? I'd love to hear your comments. Meanwhile, I'll leave you with a rather topical poem:
Curiosity
by Alastair Reid
by Alastair Reid
may have killed the cat; more likely the cat was just unlucky, or else curious to see what death was like, having no cause to go on licking paws, or fathering litter on litter of kittens, predictably.
Nevertheless, to be curious is dangerous enough. To distrust what is always said, what seems,to ask odd questions, interfere in dreams,leave home, smell rats, have hunches do not endear cats to those doggy circles where well-smelt baskets, suitable wives, good lunches are the order of things, and where prevails much wagging of incurious heads and tails.
Face it. Curiosity will not cause us to die--only lack of it will.Never to want to see the other side of the hill or that improbable country where living is an idyll(although a probable hell) would kill us all.Only the curious have, if they live, a tale worth telling at all.
Dogs say cats change too much, are irresponsible,are change able, marry too many wives,desert their children, chill all dinner tables with tales of their nine lives.Well, they are lucky. Let them be nine-lived and contradictory,curious enough to change, prepared to pay the cat price, which is to die and die again and again,each time with no less pain.A cat minority of one is all that can be counted onto tell the truth. And what cats have to tell on each return from hell is this: that dying is what the living do,that dying is what the loving do,and that dead dogs are those who do not know that dying is what, to live, each has to do.
Nevertheless, to be curious is dangerous enough. To distrust what is always said, what seems,to ask odd questions, interfere in dreams,leave home, smell rats, have hunches do not endear cats to those doggy circles where well-smelt baskets, suitable wives, good lunches are the order of things, and where prevails much wagging of incurious heads and tails.
Face it. Curiosity will not cause us to die--only lack of it will.Never to want to see the other side of the hill or that improbable country where living is an idyll(although a probable hell) would kill us all.Only the curious have, if they live, a tale worth telling at all.
Dogs say cats change too much, are irresponsible,are change able, marry too many wives,desert their children, chill all dinner tables with tales of their nine lives.Well, they are lucky. Let them be nine-lived and contradictory,curious enough to change, prepared to pay the cat price, which is to die and die again and again,each time with no less pain.A cat minority of one is all that can be counted onto tell the truth. And what cats have to tell on each return from hell is this: that dying is what the living do,that dying is what the loving do,and that dead dogs are those who do not know that dying is what, to live, each has to do.
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