Waistline, waistline, go a-way

You know what? I do believe that my dreaded waistline is improving marginally – which it damn well should be considering how much I’ve been killing myself in the gym for the past week.

Okay, I know it’s only been a week and that isn’t a lot of time to make an actual difference, but from my perspective even a tiny, tiny psychological difference is worth it.

Yesterday for example, I rode my bike to work along the creek trail, which I think is around 17 or 18 kilometres long. And yes, while I admit about 70% of that is either flat or actually downhill, so it’s not a massive workout by any stretch, but it does still take me a good hour to do it. And then I rode home from work as well of course, except I was tired after the morning's exertions so I took the more direct route which is about 7 kilometres.

All in all it was about an hour and a half of exercise – and that’s got to count for something, right? Judging by how hot and sweaty I got and how tired my legs were, it must have counted, surely. AND I managed not to undo my good efforts by eating any rubbish.

I tell you though, it’s my rear end that’s tender today – why can’t they make bicycle seats with big cushions on them? Now *that* would be a worthwhile invention.

Today my waistline is concealed by a forest green wrap-around dress that ties under the bosom (I love these wrap dresses, they are so forgiving). It has bell sleeves to the elbow and falls to just below my knees. I’ve matched an aubergine camisole underneath that just peeks out of the v-neck created by the dress.

And because I have an uncontrollable need to accessorise perfectly, I’m wearing round-toed, bottle-green t-bar stacked heels that I picked up in a tiny little shop in Tokyo, in a tiny little street in a tiny little suburb.

It was full of tiny little clothes and tiny little shoes and MASSIVE BIG HANDBAGS with padlocks and chains and buckles and other quasi-bondage accoutrements.

Not to mention the tiny little shop assistants who laughed at my hulking Western frame (I’m all of five feet tall, and not gigantically fat or anything – Christmas trifle aside, of course).

Humph.