It has been a month since I last weighed myself.  The long gap between visits to The Holy Scales can be mostly attributed to life just getting in the way.

That, and I’ve been avoiding them.

I’ve moved on from my last disastrous shopping trip and mourned the loss of my favourite shops.  I’ve since made a concerted effort to get my considerably large butt into shape and lose a few pounds, if only because I’ll have nothing to wear otherwise.

But I have a problem.

It’s REALLY hard work!

And the most difficult part?  Trying not to get injured.  I know it’s an ‘age thing,’ that I’m halfway through a somewhat eventful life that has kindly given me a dodgy lower back and crunchy knees.  It has to be said though, that it’s also given me two beautiful, if rather large at birth, sons.  So, I can’t complain.  Too much.

But something strange is happening.  I don’t know if I’m the only one who does it and it’s a bit embarrassing to admit.  But it’s just you and me, and I’m in a sharing mood.

I’m taking photos of random body parts.  Mine I hasten to add.  Whoa, right!?

Yes, the first question that springs to my mind too is, “WHY, WOMAN, WHY!?”

I’ve logically argued with myself that it’s primarily to chart my progress when it comes to my recent fitness regime – to see if anything I’m doing can, in fact, turn back time or whether I need to track Michael J Fox down and ask to borrow the DeLorean.

Secondly, it’s for posterity.  I am acutely aware of my mortality at the moment.  It’s ridiculous, right?  I’m about to be 40, not 80.  But as a ‘woman of a certain age,’ I am all too aware of my Number One Enemy – gravity, oh, and Gravity’s bitchy accomplice, Mother Nature.  They are not welcome round these parts.

I know all of this and yet … I can’t help but try to preserve, if only in photographic format, the me now, just in case I forget when I’m older that my boobs were once higher than my belly button, my mouth wasn’t always ravaged by fine lines and my hands didn’t always resemble one of my son’s dot-to-dot pictures.

In the time that I’ve been taking these rather strange photos, I haven’t noticed any dramatic changes.  I don’t have a six-pack, it’s more of a one-pack, and I reckon I could take flight with my bingo wings.  But I am noticing small changes.   In a bra, I have two boobs now, not four.  My thighs still meet in the middle but they wobble a lot less.  And my butt is still big … miracles are the work of God, not my personal trainer (aka my very helpful Other Half), but it’s a little higher, and a little firmer.  Just a little.

But I’ll take whatever I can get these days.  I’m learning a lot and I’m trying to exercise more wisely.  I’m learning how to exercise and still protect my back; how many lunges I can do without cramp sending my hamstrings into spasm and how long I can hold a plank before I collapse into a pathetic, crumpled heap on the floor.

I am a work in progress – even at this age.

One thing I do know though – I will always, always hate sit-ups.

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Published by Kate Sutton

Writer, Mother, Dater.

2 replies on “The Holy Scale”

  1. Ugh, I have crunchy knees. And I understand wanting to save this moment. Because even though my skin and other stuff isn’t as good as it was when I was, say, 16, I keep thinking, this is only going to get worse! So better enjoy it while I can. Did you read the piece on PRG about estrogen? Because that will scare the bejesus out of you.

    1. You know, my knees make me feel sick when I hear them crunch! But I’m glad you don’t think I’m mad for taking pics! Lol … it really isn’t because I think I’m a H-O-T … more that I just know it’s going to get so much worse. Which is exactly why I now won’t read the article on oestrogen!

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