GLUTTONY - The Other Pleasure

I am sick of food spoilsports. I love my food, I have a brain in my head and live a reasonably healthy life - I do not need to be told how many calories in all my food, or how many grams of salt or fat, those patronising little red yellow and green markers going “should you really be eating this?”

My weight stays pretty constant, and I’m happy with it. I can gain or lose it if I try; I sometimes lose or put on a few pounds without noticing and either work to correct it or straighten my routine out until it fixes itself. I’m ‘fortunate;’ if you consider size ten a goal, to have a fairly high metabolism and a taste for healthy (ish) food. I rarely balloon unless on medication, but if I did I wouldn’t be that bothered.

Friends of mine who have been or are overweight, by their own admission, choose to eat unhealthily. They do not eat three mars bars on the trot (I swear someone told me they did this although I can’t remember who) because they’re unaware that it is bad for them: they do it because they want to, and I say good for them to an extent. As such, printing calorie values in big bubbles on the front of packaging does nothing. No one has been sitting there presuming a Toffee Crisp is a healthy option and then goes “256 calories? Really? I had no idea, better have an apple instead.”

It’s not people wanting to be healthy I have a problem with - it’s the nannying. I happen to think big is beautiful... not more beautiful than small, not less, just itself - but if people want to diet, they should have support. What gets to me is the constant haranguing of “have you had your five a day? Have you had eight glasses of water? Are you sure caffeine, after lunch? Holy god girl, carbs after midday, are you mad? Crisps?! I don’t think so. THAT’s not wholegrain, is it now. Well, you can put salt on that if you like...after all, it’s your cellulite, not mine...”

Yes, it is my cellulite. And I love it, and I love everyone else’s too. Every time I see a celebrity circled in a magazine for having put on a roll or two, I think good for you, maybe you’re actually happy and not living on cayenne pepper and lemon juice. In any case, I would rather see your lovehandles than your collarbones.

The bottom line is the people plastering ‘only 305 calories’ on my cous cous have no idea about the rest of my diet. If they did, it would not be “look, green light, only 305 calories!”, it would be “this is only 305 calories, so make sure you grab a banana or a biscuit or something because you haven’t had any breakfast and won’t eat til seven.” Not everyone needs to eat less, and it’s not for the Government to get in the face of those who do.

Ditto to the ‘daily health tips’ I seem to have accidentally signed up for. “We know it’s cold, but why not swap that large hot chocolate and cupcake for a skinny latte and a bran muffin?” Because I wanted hot chocolate. Plus I can’t have the cake or the muffin, so I’m going to have my hot chocolate with whipped cream, marshmallows, a flake and a shortbread on the side, and you can fuck off.

Told You So

Done, done and done, but wasn't it fun?

I'm not ecstatic, I must say, but chin up, some good memories and get back out there. There are many many things to do and no doubt people to do them with. Plenty of things to write up retrospectively too, so nothing's quiet on the blogging front.

Epic Vibe Fail.

Browsing around the other day, it came to my attention that I'd never seen a sex blog without a toy review. Well then, this will be quick and relatively painless, as I own a grand total of one sex toy.

Yep.

It's my own fault, because I did it all backwards, as I tend do. I thought I knew everything - another one of my more annoying tendencies and went blundering in to somewhere, I suppose it was an Ann Summers, and bought my first vibrator before I was even legal.

I'd not even learned my body yet, didn't really know how to get myself off... I sort of thought I'd had orgasms, in the way you can only sort of think these things when you haven't, and was under the impression (blame Cosmopolitan) that this buzzy pink thing would be getting the job done.

Of course it bloody didn't. It turns out intense vibration does absolutely nothing for me, and the poor bastard thing was trying its best but it's too big, solid-hard, not something I'd even consider insertable these days but oh, I tried, because in my head that was what you did. No joy, really.

I've tried more than a handful of times since... and nothing happens. And it's not that I don't know how to press the buttons... just with my hands, I do fine. More than fine. There are times I'd quite like to buy my hands flowers and chocolates and take them out for dinner and a movie, maybe, and back to mine for the ever euphemstic coffee. But the vibe? Nope, lives in a shoebox in my wardrobe and I'm having to TRY not to leave it behind when I move out.

On the subject of moving out, here is where my sex toy education will come in. It's impossible to get that illicit, experimental thrill when you live with your grandparents. It has to be planned out way in advance, scheduled, hidden. Nothing sexy about that. Out on my own, on the other hand... well, living with my ex-Ann-Summers-Rep co-conspirator who knows more about my antics than I do at any given time, I shall find something which does it for me. I know this, because I will try EVERYTHING until I find it.

Debit card at the ready. I move out two weeks today!