Thursday, 4 October 2012

'Do as I say, not as I do!'

Why, oh why, I wonder, is it so difficult to do what is best for ourselves?

We can do what's best for our children. We can do what's best for our family and good friends. We even manage to do what's best for total strangers! So, why not ourselves?

We know, KNOW, all about five a days. Indeed many of us have it sussed. We know, that in actual fact it is a minimum of five and most of it should be veg. We know when to eat and how much, portions of tennis balls and decks of cards. We know about half an hour of activity five times a week. We know about plenty of shut eye and avoiding the bucket of wine of a night. Yes, we know about the antioxidant goodness of a couple of squares of dark, high cocoa chocolate. So, once again, why is it so easy to not 'know'. Why is it so simple to just stop doing what's best. For just ourselves?

Every so often I stop doing what's best for myself. For this, this, my mortal coil. That which has been tasked with the the busy burden of enabling, transporting, making physical all my life's dreams, loves and ambitions. In fact, I go to my very best, high achieving, ruthlessly efficient efforts to stop doing what's best.

It is at this juncture that I throw what can only be described as an inward 'tantrum'. It is an undignified, face on the floor, beat your breast hissy. Only untraceable to the innocent by stander? 'Why? Why?' I demand furiously. 'Why do I feel like a bag o'sludge?' How dare you, I rage at my poor, beleaguered self!

In its oxygen starved, sugar intoxicated, sluggish defence it cries out 'I'm so tired. Don't make me run. It would break me. Give me that kitkat. What? Dark chocolate? Not over my dead body!'

Many cycles of this, have I been through. I couldn't go over, or under, I had go squelching through. I have been a healthy weight for four years. It was not always; sadly, miserably and esteem shatteringly, the case. And somehow, each time, like a tiny, whispered miracle, I tell myself to...


I get bored of my conscience, like a formidable, nagging, beige wearing headmistress, arms folded across an indomitable bosom, barking at me from the second I wake, to 'Get out! Get out! Exercise!". I get irrate with the predictable, repetitive tsk, tsk from my elder and better self. The sanctimonious raised eye brow. And it's the inevitable sigh as I cross over to the dark side, the fridge's threshold that drives me to distraction. I lose all patience with the angel being an spineless sap and while the devil swings crazy from my shoulder with a bag of wickedness!

And so, it is with utter gratitude to my bluebottle attention span, I make a gleeful swing back to bowls of porridge and a morning run. In essence I do as I've been told. For it would seem, I (she) knows whats best for me!

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