One Size Does Not Fit All!

Afternoon All, 

So the moment has come (nearly) when the shops start blaring out Christmas hits and everyone starts barging in Tesco for the last box of mince pies! But as everyone clammers for that Gold Sequin number in Topshop, here I am wishing I could fit in to Primark sizes let alone any of the other High Street or Online party dress offerings. 

Ever since I can remember I have always been a larger size. At my High School Prom I look back on the photos of me that will take him that evening and think about how skinny and then I was. I looked a bit odd with my large head on my small underdeveloped frame. True to my Emo / Scene kids self I wore a handmade "Cold November Rain" inspired prom dress compromising of a corseted bodice and a graduated hemline skirt of black silk and pink neon chiffon. I had a collar bone and arms with shoulders to be proud of. I was a size 12. Now, a decade on, I am four dress sizes bigger and with the High street now struggling to cater to my less than agile physique, three weeks ago I decided to finally do something about it. I joined a new Gym opening for less than a tenner a month and have decided to also invest in a personal trainer to help kick start the weight loss and journey to a thinner, happier and hopefully more attractive me!

My inspiration really has to come from somewhere I have spent most of my time and that is at work. One girl there has grabbed the bull by the horns and has thrown herself into the exercise and fitness regimes like a female baaws I have never seen before. Triple-Thursdays are now a thing where three back-to-back classes are in attendance every week along with work out Wednesdays and Gym-Time-Tuesday. OK the last two I made up but Triple-Thursday is a real thing. A the beginning of the year I admired her. By the Summer I was in awe of her achievements and now, I look back as we all do on the transformation she has made and applaud her for all the hard work and effort she has put in. But in all fairness it is not you or I that see the difference or reap the benefits, nor even the lucky man she has on her arm, but her. She worked so damn hard because at some point she reached where I am now in the fact that I don't want to be that Mommy that sits on the park bench watching the kids play. I want to chase after them and run around too, not sitting reading a book I don't like because I get out of breath just looking at the roundabout. I want to be able to run round the park after my step-pooch and one day my own little fluff ball playing hide-and-seek and chase. I want to run up the stairs and not almost pass out at the top. 

After my first week I was hella nervous and on entering the new Gym complex where I was to begin my Personal Training Sessions I was a little scared. Normally friendly and bubbly to the point of being in your face I couldn't have become more opposite, now preferring to be a wallflower, fading into insignificance. Although I am a plus-size gal so that ain't happening any time soon. Starting off on the treadmill I was OK, a little breathy but OK. But that was just the warm up. Next were kettle bell swinging and steps. Again, a little more out of puff but still managing to hold a conversation. following that my PT decided to crank it up a notch by introducing me to the ropes and medicine balls. Again, looking at them I thought that they might be a little more tough but something I can handle. Yeah it was OK but I was certainly starting to feel it. Sweating in all the places I never expected to I carried on, trying to battle my way through. Finally those reps were done and I rewarded myself with some water and a moments rest. But then. Then came the dreaded box of doom. 

Twenty-inches high, the cube came up to above my knee. "I have had skirts longer than that" I thought to myself. "But you also couldn't fit into them now, could you fatty!" the devil on my shoulder said in retaliation. Spurring me on I soldiered through the gruelling task of simply stepping up onto the box and stepping back down. Sounds easy enough but by ten repetitions in I needed to stop. My vision was blurry and becoming tunnelled. I could feel waves of heat washing over me and every movement of my head or body made me want to be sick. Not wanting to Vom on my PT I took a rest and sat down for fear I might stumble. I knew my limit and I was super-unfit. Regretting the cigarettes and booze and takeaways I walked out of the venue bidding farewell to the staff thinking that I could do what I always do and just never come back. 

The question is would that really benefit me? The brutal answer is no it wouldn't and in less than six-weeks time I would be wondering why I am still the same size as I was last year and the year before and the year before that, all in the hope that somewhere does nice dresses in fat sizes for my Christmas party at work. Now I am not trying to say that all people size twenty (UK) and above need to go and join a gym and get on a strict diet of lettuce and carrot sticks, but what I am saying is that I am sick and tired of looking in every shop at beautiful dresses or outfits and all in the knowledge that they are not made for my frame or size. I have had enough of seeing stylish and sexy clothes that I cannot wear because they do not fit either on the arms, bust or waist and on the odd occasion I will hit a hat-trick of all three being completely wrong in an outfit that looks stunning on the size eight model. 

I returned last week for my first full paying session with the personal trainer. She is now costing my £45.00 for six-sessions of thirty-minutes every week and at a value of less than £7.50 per session I think that works out fantastic value and gets me exactly where I want to be. I wasn't as nervous as a first time walking through the doors, and in actual fact being greeted by people that already knew my face was quite a blessing. Oddly enough I had been looking forward to it. And whilst it was hard with more of the ropes, medicine balls and kettle bells, plus a few squats and lunges for good measure I was pleased to not feel as out of breath as I was the week before. No nausea. No blurred vision. No having to stop. Powering through it like my own female baaws. I have not quite got the Triple-Thursday crave yet, but I certainly walk out of the place now feeling more confident, achieved and even with a smile of my face looking forward to my next session. 

'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx

Taking The Piss ...

Hi There, 

So after last weeks escapades in Ireland, and after spending a fair amount on PANDORA in Ireland's sale season (although I must admit I did grab some great bargains) both me and my bank manager were more than happy I was finally on a flight back to Blighty. Now I am back home, sat on my sofa as Mr. Warehouse plays GTA and the dog plays ball with her imaginary friend (or the resident ghostie - I don't know), but with coming back home comes also the unrelenting stress of my situation with Mr. Warehouse and how financially we will be able to afford the next few weeks. 

I am concerned about money and the lack of it, especially what with the upcoming events such as the wedding of Mr. Warehouse's cousin in Newquay, mounting birthday's and my upcoming (and much needed) summer break away with the Tweedles. I would like to go back to a day whereby neither of us thought twice about heading out for dinner on a Friday night coming home from work or going to the cinema for a mid-week flick. But I suppose that in the long run we will be able to do that, just for now we will have to give it up for a short time before Mr. Warehouse is back on his feet and financially we are more stable. The fact that I am working two jobs and still struggling with finances I think speaks volumes, but as the British always say, it doesn't rain but always pours and this was certainly true for me this past week. 

Getting in from my driving lesson I helped Mr. Warehouse in preparing dinner and feeding the dog. It was just gone seven in the evening. Settling down I had said to the boyfriend that something didn't feel right and I could sense another bout of Cystitis coming on. Now for those that don't know, Cystitis is a bacterial infection that mainly affects women and causes issues such as retention of urine, burning when urinating or indeed more serious issues to do with your bladder, kidneys and sexual organs. The condition doesn't just make life with the infection annoying and uncomfortable, but for me can go from normal to crippling pain within an hour and this, coupled with the urgent need to pee and the frustration of nothing coming out but still feeling a full bladder, is some of the worst pain I have ever felt in my entire life. This is exactly what happened on Thursday night. 

Less than twenty-four hours had passed since I had arrived back home from my trip to Southern Ireland when I started to feel the onset of yet another infection and given the fact that I had been suffering from recurrent Cystitis and Thrush Combo's since March I was pretty fed up when I could feel another one coming along. Knowing that if I didn't act soon I would be wanting to claw my insides out with a fork by the time I went to bed, I took some paracetamol and a salt sachet you can buy over the counter and hoped it would clear up in a few days. I didn't even get into a few hours for as the moments were passing sat watching telly with my boyfriend the agony started. Constantly up and down going to the toilet I couldn't bear this much longer and decided to call the doctors whom passed my call through to the local hospital. It was serious now and by the time they told me that a prescription would be waiting for me to collect it at the local Accident and Emergency department I was crying, bent over doubled in pain on my bathroom floor. 

Being in the situation I am, what with no car and a limited income, I asked the doctor who I spoke to about getting the prescription written out so I could collect the tablets at the hospital and he explained that since the Pharmacy shut an hour earlier that I would have to go to an all night stockist. There would be no other option than to get a cab across town to collect the written prescription, then get the cabbie to drive to an all night Pharmacy to collect it and then back home so I could take it. Stressed and unable to deal with the situation and with nowhere else to turn I called my Dad. Reaching out for him to help was something I rarely did, only because I knew he doesn't have a great past record in helping me out when I'm in a pickle. Dialling his number I was sure he could help and as he answered and heard me in floods of tears he asked me to calm down and explain everything. 

After going through all of what I had already tried and expanding on the situation that was in hand I asked for his help. 
"Can you come and collect me and take me to where I need to go, Please Dad?" I said through broken croaks and tears. I was not expecting the response being that he was ready for bed and couldn't help because in his own words 'by the time I come and collect you, the trips could already be made and you would be back home'. He lives under a half-hour from his door to mine, a town down on the train line in Flitwick - Not the next county he would have you believing. I just didn't understand. He was my Dad. He knew the stress I was under with money. He knew the financial situation I was in with Mr. Warehouse and the likes. And yet still he did not help. Nothing. Scared and worried about what was going to happen, Mr. Warehouse had enough of the seeing me in pain and had called a cab already, ushering me into the back of it as I clutched at my abdomen and attempting small talk with my father. 

Sure enough I was up to A&E in no time, over to the Pharmacy and back home within the space of forty-minutes, no thanks to my father of course. A patronising phone call from his girlfriend and a follow-up call in the morning tried to justify his actions but nothing made a difference; I was still out of pocket nearly thirty-quid in taxi fares not to mention the twenty-pound prescription costs! Got to love the NHS and all their charges for working people haven't you. The last conversation ended with my father saying that if I needed any financial help or anything else then just to call him. But correct me if I am wrong, but that is what I had already done, wasn't it? Reached out for help when I needed it the absolute most? And he couldn't be bothered? Why the hell would I ask for anymore help when my Dad has been unable to help in several situations before? 

I have spoken to Miss Tweedle-Dumb and other friends back home and further afield than Flitwick and all of them had scolded me for not coming to them next and asking for their help. I suppose naively I thought my Father would help me. Obviously not. If it was one of his girlfriends niece's, nephews or other family members it would have been a very different scenario. Everything would have been dropped and they would be straight round, helping and rallying around to try and do whats best, but for his own daughter it was lost. Since then I haven't spoken to him and at the movement I just dont want to. He hasn't even apologised or tried to offer a constellation prize for not being there as a Father, nothing! Its too raw for me to speak with him at the moment and need some time to cool off before I speak to him or his girlfriend again. I knew my mother was a piece of work but two crappy parents? Come on!

'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx

No Pain, No Gain!

Hey Ya'll, 

Ever wondered what its like to be a lady who lunches all the time. An unemployed busy-body whose husband is always working away, you probably have children in private school, and a friend circle which including the names Pippa, Harriet and Felicity. A wonderfully luxurious cocktail of Pilate's, Champagne afternoon tea and sneaky Tuesday afternoons stolen with a gardener whom tends to not only your roses but you as well, right after Murder She Wrote. Ahh yes, and the husband doesn't even know a thing! 

One thing that posh ladies who are unemployed do is go for spa days and massages on a regular basis, and as a wanna-be-posho, I try to keep up with this trend by booking in a massage every couple of months or so to relieve all the tension that builds up through people generally just getting on my fucking wick! However, my normal salon, which is college based training new, upcoming college-grad's on the best techniques and methods, was closed for the summer break and so I booked in with somewhere new. And so, walking into the new Chiropractic Surgery and taking a seat I glanced round the converted 19th Century waiting room. As the pre-twenty-something receptionist handed me a clipboard I read through the registration form before filling it out as best I could. After a quick pop to the little girls room I was ready to be rubbed down and have all the tension of the past few weeks eased away. 

Soon I was greeted by a tall gentleman, softly spoken with a wonderfully smooth and relaxing voice, possibly even sexy to an extent. He welcomed me into the small but airy consulting room and ushered me to sit on the massage table. Seating myself we talked for a few minute about my specific areas of tension and 'tight areas'. But with such a chocolatey-velvet voice I struggled not to imagine this as a weird porno whereby I would have added extras to complete my "treatment". To look at the poor man he wasn't that much of a painting, or at least not for me. He was no Mr. Warehouse put it that way. But Mr. Masseuse was very calming and relaxed in his attitude, especially given the fact he was sat bouncing softly on a Pregnancy Ball. Fairly young, probably no older than early-thirties, blonde hair - short but messy and with a twang in his husky voice that seemed European, or at the very least well travelled I listened carefully as he grilled me on not drinking enough water. 

As he got up and left the room, I undressed down to my panties as I usually would and did that odd shuffle you do when trying to get onto the massage table whilst attempting to keep my dignity and not look like a dead seal by the time the Masseuse comes back, which is always milliseconds after they initially leave. Placing my head in the doughnut I saw two feet appear, clad in a socks and sandals combo. 
"Yes, that's defiantly got 'home-schooled in Prague' written all over it!" I thought to myself as he lubed - I mean oiled up! Getting cringier by the minute he awkwardly asked if he could undo my bra and after saying yes politely it was unclasped quicker than you could say 'Playaaa'. 

As he started to work on my shoulders I winced at the pain. 
"This is meant to be relaxing not punishing?!" I pondered, gritting my teeth through the searing sting. "Or maybe that's what he wanted?!" my mind said, altering what was a normal visit to the Chiropractors into something much seedier. 
"Wouldn't it be hilarious if there was a mirror on the floor so you can see your face crumple when you are kneaded within an inch of your life by a smooth talking, beardy European man with no clear sense of sandal-etiquette" I chuckled to myself as I braced once more for his powerful push. 

As time went on I wondered if it would ever end and I will just get a nice smooth caress. No. The pain and struggle continued as Mr. Masseuse stretched, pulled and pushed my back like he was making a loaf of bread. 
"I will pay for my kindness and inability to saying ease up on the pressure tomorrow" I thought to myself wrenching once more as he Mr. Masseuse bore into my spine once more with his knuckles. It was almost laughable in some instances, especially when he went up round the back of my neck, a sensitive, sweet-spot anyway. I think the fact that he was discussing a "friend" of his whom enjoyed the feel of ladies walking on his back didn't help to stifle the sniggers and in all fairness I was just waiting to feel something oddly shaped and sticky on my back. 

But again and again I watched those socked-up, granddad-trainer-sandals pace in front and to the sides of me ready to deliver the sharp pinch of back-fat. Suddenly, as if the pain in my shoulders and spinal column wasn't enough to leave me paralysed, I felt a sharp jab on my Love-handle. And again, this time rolling the burn from my tail-bone to my hip. This had gone from what I envisaged as an oddly erotic, 1980's style porno, to a full blown BDSM, bondage sesh with zero safe-word. No longer could I contain my torture and out escaped a little "Eeeep"!

"What was that?!" I scolded myself, wondering if Mr. Masseuse though he may have stepped on a mouse. But alas, the agony had somewhat eased. I was tender in a spot I never even knew was tender! I was more sore their than anywhere else on my body. But after a few more 'oohs', 'ahhs' and "Eeeeps", the agonising manoeuvres were met with some reassuring 'hmms' from Mr. Masseuse. Kindly he said that my sides and the bottom of my back was seized up and needed to be released. Listening to his creamy tones I soaked up the moments of painlessness. But then a jab. Right to the buttocks. And then the other. Right in the middle of each Arse-cheek. Under my bum. On the sides of my bum  and back to the middle of each cheek again. "That hurt. That really hurt!" I squealed in my head. Agreeing with my pain he pokes some more along my thighs and concludes that whilst they are not the problem, my derrière, love-handles and calves were all seized up and needed to be "worked on". 

Facial distortion over with I was finished off (No Pun Intended!) with a firm rub to the nape of my neck to which made me squirm with a cold mixture of delight, tickles and the gratefulness that my hour-long ordeal with Mr. Masseuse was nearly over with. But then, just as I had contained my giggles so far he came out with the phrase "Mmm, yes. Your neck is spasticated." And oh dear. It had slipped out in a pure gaffeur of excitement and hilarity. Laughing and chuckling away to myself, imagining partly the look on my Mr. Masseuse's face and also reliving those words in my head I tried to excuse my behaviour by stating that I was ticklish their. I mean how old was I - Four!? 

With a buttery-smooth response, slightly sexy in a way from Mr. Masseuse saying that "it's be its OK to be ticklish" I was brought back into the room, in my imagination now with red and black walls, dimly lit and smelling of candle wax; When in reality it was still light outside and with a cool but warm breeze through the third floor sash window. Slowly and rather gently wiping off the excess oils Mr. Masseuse exited the room and I swiftly shot up and snatched at my clothes, shoving them on as quickly as I could, knowing Mr. Masseuse was waiting behind the frosted glass door. After I was dressed I invited him back into his room and listened to all the things he had to say about my body and how to try and alleviate some of the stresses in it. 

Granted I have probably over-exaggerated the whole BDSM, rough and ready, porno vibe but in my mind it sounds better than a whitewashed Chiropractic Surgery in which a Professional well-educated man with a slight accent massages the aches and pains of an overly excited twenty-three-year-old. Nevertheless I left the Treatment room, glad to be home safe in the knowledge that I will not be signing up to a life-time of luxurious mani's, pedi's and massages any time soon, and certainly not to the sado-masochistic Mr. Masseuse with his dulcet tones, heavy handed nature and odd footwear choices

'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx