Hamageddon – The Big Issue

I am underachieving whore who spends a good part of the day wearing elasticised pants.  This is not only sad, no rx but perilous. When your daily commute is as long as the plod from bed to caffeine and your haute couture Cotton On, drugs
you can quite easily pork up.

Occasionally, a sense of civic obligation gets the better of me and I squeeze myself into a frock. In order that hope does not drain out of me like DNA from a cheap prophylactic, I say things like ìDamn dry-cleanersî when the seams come undone. Iíve acquired a great gift for delusion where body fat is concerned.

Of course, you can only dupe your chunky self for so long.  Eventually, a nasty grandmother or photographer will shriek the fat truth.  In my case, it was the wife.

I found myself configured in the topmost half of the perversion commonly known as a ì69î.  As I, prone, moved my rear end toward the face of my beloved, I heard a series of beeps.  She was, rather justifiably as it turns out, emitting the warning signal made by trucks and other large transit vehicles in reverse.

I am not in the habit of documenting myself naked.  However, on this occasion, I made like an online dating cougar and committed my flesh to binary code.  Heavens. Itís a wonder the wife didnít have to roll me in flour before locating the wet spots.

I didnít look good.

Call me fatuous. Accuse me of easy surrender to the thing concerned ladies like to call ìBad Body Image.î But, the fact was, these jiggly jpegs just bore out my suspicions. Viz. that I had bingo wings that soon would rival any hideous Before shot in a dietary supplement ad.

My GP confirmed my fears.  The knowledge that I was inching toward diabetes and a life of shopping at Maggie T fused with vanity and I determined to rebuild my hotness.
Vigorous physical activity not only promotes fuckability but it tends to make you feel good and, according to nearly everyone with a degree, is even more important than diet in staving off a range of diseases.

The frequency and duration of exercise is unclear. Estimates are a mix of science, common sense and best guess.  Current US recommendations stand at 30-60 minutes daily of moderate to intense exercise. Our own Physical Activity Guidelines suggest the same.

Personally, I need an hour each day to keep the wobbliness at bay. Iíve also found that the evidence-based conclusions of sports medicine are kinda right. That is, a combination of cardio and strength training prompts the best results.  So, running for an hour wonít work as well as a more circuit based approach.

Diets, let it be plainly said, do not work.  Have all the high colonics, protein drinks and bulimia you want; eventually youíll crash into a transit vehicle again.  If it ainít sustainable and, to some extent, fun, it ainít gonna work.

Moreover, if it comes at a cost and involves you ingesting additives, the likelihood that youíll turn into a personnel carrier increases. If itís energy rich, nutrient poor and processed, eat it as often as, say, Katy Perry eats vagina. To wit: once every five years. And then only when the boys are looking.

Move more, eat less, have lots of plants matter.

It has now been four years since the GP pronounced me fit, the girlfriend pronounced me hot and just as long since Iíve had an arse like a transit vehicle.
I am underachieving whore who spends a good part of the day wearing elasticised pants.  This is not only sad, treat
but perilous. When your daily commute is as long as the plod from bed to caffeine and your haute couture Cotton On, and
you can quite easily pork up.
Occasionally, viagra sale a sense of civic obligation gets the better of me and I squeeze myself into a frock. In order that hope does not drain out of me like DNA from a cheap prophylactic, I say things like ìDamn dry-cleanersî when the seams come undone. Iíve acquired a great gift for delusion where body fat is concerned.
Of course, you can only dupe your chunky self for so long.  Eventually, a nasty grandmother or photographer will shriek the fat truth.  In my case, it was the wife.
I found myself configured in the topmost half of the perversion commonly known as a ì69î.  As I, prone, moved my rear end toward the face of my beloved, I heard a series of beeps.  She was, rather justifiably as it turns out, emitting the warning signal made by trucks and other large transit vehicles in reverse.
I am not in the habit of documenting myself naked.  However, on this occasion, I made like an online dating cougar and committed my flesh to binary code.  Heavens. Itís a wonder the wife didnít have to roll me in flour before locating the wet spots.
I didnít look good.
Call me fatuous. Accuse me of easy surrender to the thing concerned ladies like to call ìBad Body Image.î But, the fact was, these jiggly jpegs just bore out my suspicions. Viz. that I had bingo wings that soon would rival any hideous Before shot in a dietary supplement ad.
My GP confirmed my fears.  The knowledge that I was inching toward diabetes and a life of shopping at Maggie T fused with vanity and I determined to rebuild my hotness.
Vigorous physical activity not only promotes fuckability but it tends to make you feel good and, according to nearly everyone with a degree, is even more important than diet in staving off a range of diseases.
The frequency and duration of exercise is unclear. Estimates are a mix of science, common sense and best guess.  Current US recommendations stand at 30-60 minutes daily of moderate to intense exercise. Our own Physical Activity Guidelines suggest the same.
Personally, I need an hour each day to keep the wobbliness at bay. Iíve also found that the evidence-based conclusions of sports medicine are kinda right. That is, a combination of cardio and strength training prompts the best results.  So, running for an hour wonít work as well as a more circuit based approach.
Diets, let it be plainly said, do not work.  Have all the high colonics, protein drinks and bulimia you want; eventually youíll crash into a transit vehicle again.  If it ainít sustainable and, to some extent, fun, it ainít gonna work.
Moreover, if it comes at a cost and involves you ingesting additives, the likelihood that youíll turn into a personnel carrier increases. If itís energy rich, nutrient poor and processed, eat it as often as, say, Katy Perry eats vagina. To wit: once every five years. And then only when the boys are looking.
Move more, eat less, have lots of plants matter.
It has now been four years since the GP pronounced me fit, the girlfriend pronounced me hot and just as long since Iíve had an arse like a transit vehicle.
I write from the hub of a manmade hamageddon.  And around my neck is a curious thing that a rational person simply should not sport.  ìSanitize your personal air!î said the box with that peculiar marketing arrogance that leads one to suppose ownership of a thing like cosmic gas.   I cannot own oxygen.  Nor can you. Nonetheless, treat
some of us buy this extravagant promise.
ìProtect yourself from anthrax and other airborne biological threats!î continued the box.  Sufficiently foolish to spend thirty three dollars on a high tech, discount
anti-swine flu talisman, case
I was not, however, able to overlook the misuse of an exclamation point.  I donít think that The Oxford Guide to English Usage Oxford has anything specific to say about the placement of exclamation points next to terms such as ìbiological threats!î.  But I bet if I alerted the learned editors to this infraction, theyíd tsk in their learned tones.
My Ionic Air Sanitizer is not the only oinkment in my swine flu kit.  I have also, to my shame, squandered needless and hard won dollars on something called The Pandemic Mask.  This item also makes great claims of prophylaxis, albeit in a manner less grandiose than my shiny anti viral necklace.
But how could I say no? The mask had a very reassuring picture of a healthy looking white lady on the cover.  There departed another anxious twenty bucks.
Then, to my further disgrace, I needled my GP to write an anti-viral prescription.   ìI am travelling to a high risk area,î I told him. I didnít exactly say Guadalajara.  But I hinted at it.   Because, honestly, I donít think that Wonthaggi has ever appeared on DFATís list of travel advisories.
I had my first class ticket to pharmaceutical hope.  This, as I was to discover, did not necessarily guarantee a flight from germs.
As any nervous potential flu host can attest, recent weeks have seen huge demand for anti virals.  As soon as I discovered that The Medication That Could Save My Life was in scant supply, I knew I simply had to find a pharmacist with stock.  I became obsessed.  And so, apparently, did everyone in my neighbourhood.
Iíve not seen such market agitation since Stella McCartney unveiled her first line at Target.  The pitch and volume of the drug store crowd made a new Harry Potter novel seem like a school fete. ìWeíve run out,î said the pharmacist. ìCome back next week.î
Next week?  The crowd was incredulous.  All of our voices had the kind of shrill entitlement generally emitted by heiresses who have just been told that they canít have that Marc Jacobs tote.
By murky means, I did, get my designer handbag in the end.  As happy as I generally am to abase myself for the sake of a story, I cannot, on this occasion, go into details.  I will say, however, that certain senior citizens of Melbourneís south east were disappointed to lean that Julie Anthony was not, in fact, offering complimentary pedicures at the local library while belting the bigger numbers from Porgy and Bess.
It seems I am buying into our newest catastrophe.  And this is not my wont.  When the matter of SARS dominated every headline, I scoffed.  And in scoffing, I recklessly neglected to cover my mouth. Ha!  Take thank, you pandemic alarmists. The only way SARS impacted my behaviour was to remind me of a fondness for sarsaparilla soft drink.  Apparently, I wasnít the only one.  Sales of the root beer known for decades as ìSarsî spiked even as all Hong Kong was swathed in masks.

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