Mass Effect

Let's talk about mass. Because quite frankly, it's weighing on me.

It's been years, if at all, since I publicly griped about my size on this site. One, because it's generally boring. Two, because I've never really been, for want of a more PC phrase "fat enough". And three, because I've never wanted to make slimming pledges I knew in my heart of hearts I probably couldn't keep.

But I feel I need to write about it now, because it's become an issue that I no longer feel I have any control over. I need to take some control back, and perhaps clearly elucidating my thoughts can be a small step in that direction.

I have reached - for me, it is important to note - the "fat enough" stage.

I can't even bear to tell you what my mass is. I can't bear it. I'm ashamed, and embarrassed.

But I will tell you these facts.

I am 20 kilograms over my "ideal" mass.

I am 15 kilograms over my "goal" mass.

And I am 10 kilograms over my "that's really the upper limit" mass.

Much of this mass gain has been in the past 7 months, after I badly injured my left ankle the start of July, then spent the rest of winter hibernating in a den of carbohydrates.

It was only in September that I got the diagnosis of a torn tibia-fibular ligament, and with travel and starting a new job, then Christmas, now floods, I've yet to get the physio I really need for it.

But that doesn't really matter anymore. The ankle is well enough to move. I just haven't been moving it.

And so I'm comfortable writing here now because I realise this isn't about me, as good-opinion-seeking Natalie, wanting to hear platitudes of "You're not fat".

I'm writing because I am carrying too much mass on my frame. Yes, I'm tall, and I'm still in relative proportion, and they are the only reasons it doesn't "show" as much. What you don't see is the pain in my knees and ankles, which surely would be helped by having to haul less mass around. You don't see the increasing tightness of my bras, as my bust inflates. You don't feel the weight of excess flesh on your thighs, feeling like you're wearing sacks of flour strapped just above the knee.

Exercise - I've got to get back into it. I bought a FitBit late last year and have been wearing it religiously to monitor my steps every day. My target is the baseline 10,000 steps a day, but often I fall short, around the 8000 mark. But if I keep at it, and finally get into a daily walking routine, I might start seeing... I don't know. Something. Anything.

Diet-wise - I don't know what I'm going to do. I have all the knowledge for a healthy diet - lots of vegetables, lean protein, small amounts of carbs and sugar. And yet, I get bored cooking. I don't know how to make enough exciting healthy dishes. I don't have time, for God's sake.

My biggest problem has been junk food. I'm constantly snacking, constantly looking for something to put in my mouth. It's must be the same motor memory as smokers. I'd say I self-medicate with food, but that wouldn't be altogether true - mostly I'm just eating things because I can't stop eating things.

However, in July 2012 I made a promise to myself to cut out McDonald's and KFC for a month. I had the habit of dropping in and grabbing things off their $2 menus. It was a bad habit, so I stopped. For a month. I did it. I did have KFC later in 2012, but have stopped again as of January 1. And apart from the odd ice-cream or drink, I have not had any McDonald's food since July.

Good habits can be formed.

So I'm going to try something this month that could be tangentially beneficial.

I've placed a self-imposed ban on buying any new clothing, footwear or make-up.

This might not seem like much to those of you averse to shopping, but wandering through the Queen Street Mall is one of my key ways of relaxing.

This is not financially disruptive - I never buy ridiculously expensive stuff, and almost always buy on sale - but it is a way of hiding my increasing mass. "Nobody need know the size", I think, or "This brand always runs small", as I reach for a looser garment.

Well, bollocks to that. Time to face facts. I've got a shitload of clothes. I recently gave five bags of no-longer-worn gear to a charity shop, and I've still got a wardrobe full.

I'm going to try to wear all them across the month of February. That's 28 days of outfits. Once an outfit has been worn, it can't be repeated. I *may* have to reuse some bottoms as I don't have as many skirts and pants as I do tops, but I'm going to limit it to twice for each garment.

I'm pretty sure this is going to be as hellish as all get-out, and require a fair bit more planning than I probably realise. But I'm going to give it a go.

If nothing else, it should confirm to me exactly what doesn't fit/what I don't like wearing anymore, and I can reduce my wardrobe down even further. Then, come March, I can re-examine what it is I actually want to wear, and what I need to do diet/exercise wise to make it happen without the heartache.

I started on Friday 1 February with this Maiocchi cherry dress:

It's a lovely frock, but already getting tight across the bust. And while I was wearing it, the cherry pin at the front of the belt just popped off as I was walking. Just popped off! That's not a good sign.

Then on Saturday night I dressed down to attend Cliff Richard in concert:

It's nothing fancy, because I had the realisation that I probably shouldn't burn the nice stuff too early. On the plus side, this outfit plus accompanying multi-coloured Converse sneakers meant I got asked for ID at the casino as my Mum and I went in to have pre-Cliff dinner. Why yes, I could be under 18, thank you for asking.

Every few days I'll post more photographs - mostly so I can keep track of what I've worn.

Never A Bridesmaid

I came to the Samantha Brick brouhaha somewhat late. After finally reading the English columnist's first "Don't Hate Me Because I'm Beautiful" piece, then her follow up "You Trollers Have Just Gone and Proved My Point" rejoinder, I thought perhaps I should write about it.

My initial idea for a response on the topic was an ironic parody in which I too identified as heart-achingly beautiful, and echoed the troubles that Samantha herself encounters by merely existing. But that got done pretty quickly.

My next idea was to point out how The Daily Mail must be laughing all the way to the bank with this hullabullo; whether or not they deliberately put Samantha Brick up to it, or just cashed in on the massive response doesn't really matter - the click-throughs, the comments, the media coverage must be absolutely delighting the paper's publishers. But then I read this great piece from Jezebel, which covers those points much more eloquently. There's also this insightful column that outlines how no one cared about some of the other things Samantha Brick wrote about, some quite sad things, until she committed the unforgivable crime of being "massively up herself".

And so the only thing I can think to write on the Samantha Brick affair that hasn't already been covered related to one line. One little line that may have not jumped out amongst the self-praise and discussion of her slightly creepy mustachioed French husband...

Oui?

 ... but one that resonated with me. One of those quite sad elements of her column that got overlooked (not undeservedly) by her massive up-herself-ism.

"And most poignantly of all, not one girlfriend has ever asked me to be her bridesmaid."

Maybe I'm a complete sap, but that made me feel very sorry for Samantha. I've never been asked to be a bridesmaid either; and in recent years it's made me a little heartsick.

It's Cocktober! Celebrate by naming a Penis.

So here's another reason for my parents to be amazingly proud of me.

My next production, How to Be a Man, contains not only dick jokes, but actual dicks!

And I'm not talking about the cast members (boom-tish).

I'm talking about the two full-size penis costumes I need - for artistic purposes, obviously.

My favourite part is the button that says "Click to Enlarge".

As a fun way of raising awareness - and cash! - I'm going to auction off the naming rights to our super schlongs.

That's right readers - this is your chance to be a part of Brisbane theatre history.

The winning bidders will receive:

• The right to name a penis (a one word name only, but it can be anything you like). The name will be stitched onto the front of the giant willy, and will remain there for the run of the show.
• A mention in the program.
• A double pass to the opening night of How to Be a Man on Saturday 12 November (transferable to another night if you are unable to attend opening). You'll also get a backstage tour of the set.
• A merchandise pack including an official How To Be a Man t-shirt and stubby cooler.
• A photograph of you with your personalised penis.

There are TWO of these packs up for grabs via secret auction.

The minimum bid is $30 - to place your bid, please email natalie @ girl clumsy dot com with your name, a contact phone number, and what you'd be prepared to stump up to give a John Thomas your own John Hancock.

I'm going to update the bidding amounts in the comments section, so you can see what's being pledged, and whether you want to beat it!

The competition will remain open until 5pm Friday 14 October. The winning bidders will be contacted by phone. The winning amounts will be able to be paid via cheque to the Brisbane Arts Theatre or by direct bank deposit.

Please note - if funds raised exceed the cost of the penis costumes, fantastic! The extra dosh will be funnelled into other production expenses for How To Be A Man. The Brisbane Arts Theatre receives no government or corporate sponsorship, so you know your dollars are going straight to a community organisation that needs them.

A Boring Machine

As a member of the Queensland Parliamentary Media Gallery (with the Speaker's Handbook-shaped scars from the notorious hazing process to prove it), I am a reasonably regular attendee at what we colloquially refer to as "hard hat jobs".

This is where We Esteemed Journalists get kitted up in safety vests, goggles, steel-cap boots and yes, the obligatory hard hats, and follow Our Illustrious Leaders onto an infrastructure project, there to Gape in Wonder at the Awesome Power of Technology and Construction and Stuff.

They can be a bit of a pain - often because they take a long time, but mostly because of the safety gear rigamarole. No matter how early I arrive, there are never any supplied boots that fit me, so I wind up clomping around like a wounded hippo. In a bright orange vest. It's just impossible for me to not look like a bumbling fool dressed like this.

But sometimes the small part of me that remains unbattered by cynicism escapes.

Sorry

As I made my favourite ham and salad wraps for lunch today, I absent-mindedly popped the baby spinach leaves on top of the ham first, instead of leaving them until last, as per my usual method.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" I exclaimed.

As I moved the salad leaves to one side to insert the cheese and olives, I realised what I had just done.

I APOLOGISED....TO A SANDWICH.

Hiccups and other hiccups

In the golden days of radio gone by, an on-air stuff-up was easily forgotten. Sure, others in the industry would furtively pass around blooper tapes, but by and large the GP would remain blissfully unaware of the verbal foibles of announcers, jocks and newsreaders.

But of course, we now live in the Age of the Internet, where people stuffing up is the stock-in-trade of almost every popular website in the world - well, YouTube and Failblog at any rate.

And so it was that a 3am news bulletin read by a young lass at Melbourne station 3AW exploded onto social media networks yesterday. Kate Wilson had been struck by the hiccups, and did what all good newsreaders do - she soldiered on and read her bulletin.

Now reading the news is certainly not the most physically demanding of jobs, but it does have its own particular hurdles. I've never had the hiccups on-air - but I'd be lying if I didn't own up to my fair share of blunders and missteps.

Losing It

I got a call earlier this evening from a nice man named Wayne at QPAC, informing me that he had my wallet. I was most surprised, as I was unaware that it had left my possession.

I'd been at the Concert Hall today to watch The Wah roll off the QUT production line as a freshly-minted graduate (a very proud moment; although we stopped short of greeting his debut into Bachelorhood with a vuvuzela blast, which was the triumphant sound that welcomed one of his fellows).

In all the excitement I must have left my wallet somewhere, and had no idea it was missing until Wayne gave me a buzz. He said it had been handed in, and he had tracked me down through the White Pages. I arranged to drop by tomorrow to pick it up, marvelling at the kindness of strangers that still exists in the world.

Frozen in Time

I bought a Frozen Coke yesterday.

A foolish drink for winter weather, absolutely. But damn it was tasty. And it had a nostalgia factor.

GC Helps BP

Honestly, I'm full of good ideas.

Driving Me Crazy

So my car is a write-off.

That was crux of the phone call I had late Friday afternoon; obviously all the official business has yet to be done - including the solemn ceremony of me tracking down my poor Hummer to retrieve all sundries from the glovebox and boot (including, I suspect, a box of porn leftover from Felafel). Next week sometime I will get an official figure, but it looks like I'm going to paid out roughly $15,000 for the car.

And I think I'm going to need your help.

Crash Boom Bang

So, yeah. Today I was in a car accident.

It's Just Not Cricket

It's been a while since I've been responsible for a truly memorable on-air balls-up, so I thought I'd share this one.

But should Ricky Ponting decide to sue me for defamation, I must insist you leap to my defense, by attesting that my clumsiness extends far and away beyond simple physical ineptitude.

http://www.mediafire.com/?jnjwnyujztz

I should point out that a) it was early and b) I was editing in my head and trying to avoid saying the word "test" twice. But you know, mistakes are made, and all of a sudden I'm implying one of Australia's top sportsmen is interested in a completely different type of grass... *sigh*.

Merry Christmas to you all too.