I can't get NO

Yes, you guessed right, 'Satisfaction' is what I'm lacking.  Actually I'm lacking a lot of things it's just that Satisfaction is currently number one on my "things I am missing chart".  Closely followed, that is, at numbers 2 and 3 by My Sanity and A Libido (although I wonder whether those two are not so much missing in fact as long gone, disappeared, vanished, never to be found again).

I am dissatisfied with everything right now.  Including being dissatisfied that I'm dissatisfied.  I'm not going to go through the whole spiel of why however, suffice to say I am a selfish, self pitying, self indulgent self obsessed self-selfy-self-self type of person who will never be completely happy because I am always so busy admiring everyone else's lawns.  Not their actual lawns obviously  (which would make me both dissatisfied and an anorak of the saddest variety) I mean their metaphorical lawns, which are metaphorically far greener than mine, not difficult considering mine is a veritable wilderness - desert like, sand covered and with tumbleweed galore.  

Perhaps this whole gym thing is not such a good idea.  I have to confess that although I am loving the big  endorphin rush part (ie. the end bit), I am struggling with the concept of eight foot high wall to wall mirrors erected on every flat surface available.  This is designed, presumably, so that you can admire the wondrous changes the gym is bestowing upon your physique, or in my case, so that you can see every last ounce of chubby blubber wobbling as you bounce about, thus providing a huge reminder of why you need to be there.  Unfortunately for me it has the converse effect.  I feel gorgeous, toned and sylph like until I see my reflection and then my world comes crashing down, I realise the truth and it makes me want to dash to Asda and purchase as many Jaffa Cakes as I can ram in my gym bag. 

Tonight was a particularly bad session.  Usually I go during the school day, when the rest of the population are at work so the only others there are the staff, a few pudgy cake-stuffing housewives (myself included) and maybe a sprinkling of O.A.P's.  Nothing too intimidating.   This evening though I ended up arriving during the iron pumping equivalent of rush hour.  The place was heaving, and not with the usual lardy crinkle mix that I am part of......no these were the fitness elite, the Barbies and Kens, the steroid toting pea-heads with biceps the size of my thigh and girls with bosoms so enhanced they could take someones eye out.   

I began to exercise.....got on the running machine and started my usual programme, then caught a glimpse of myself in the evil reflection makers, cellulite and flab all wobbling around like a gloopy blamange dripping down my bottom half.  I glanced at the Pussy Cat Dolls to my left and the Cheryl Tweedy lookalike to my right and suddenly it dawned on me that I did not belong here, or at least not without a vacuum cleaner, dusters and cleaning fluid in my hand.   For a second I considered throwing myself off the running machine, head first at the abdominal cruncher in the hope I would at the very least cause myself a major concussion and have to be airlifted out of there......anything to release me instantly from my self imposed misery and humiliation......but then  I realised how short sighted my plan was.  Potentially impaling oneself on an exercise machine has got to be slightly more unbearable than a battered ego - and so I decided just to skulk off quietly and hope that no-one had noticed I was ever there.

I appreciate that there is something slightly ironic about feeling out of place in a gym because you're overweight.....and if I'm honest I didn't really feel as bad as I like to make out (for dramatic effect) but it was a little disconcerting being surrounded by such physically perfect specimens.  It wouldn't be so bad if I could wear a disclaimer, say a t-shirt emblazoned with "I've had four kids and chocolate is my only friend", thus excusing myself in part for letting it get this bad.    Not that having children is an excuse but it definitely makes hanging on to a figure a lot more challenging.    I do of course realise how unimportant looks actually are by the way, just in case you think me superficial, shallow and soulless as well as self absorbed.  I am reading a book at the moment entitled "Stan Cattermole, the intimate adventures of an ugly man".......a rather rude (but very funny) account of the love life of a hideous (by his own admission) looking chap.  Anyway the crux of the matter is that whilst reading it I've thought deeply about what it is that I find attractive.   I can absolutely, hand on heart say it isn't anything physical.  Although bad personal hygiene and/or a Morris Dancer costume would really put me off.   And as far as I'm concerned being told you are pretty or have a great rack is really no compliment considering looks aren't something you have much control over;  after all if it's a great rack he's after well there will always be someone somewhere with a better one.  But being told you're one of a kind, unique, original, irreplaceable and like no-one else, well that's probably what I yearn for.....

that and a pert backside.

And satisfaction of course. 

And a mirrorless gym.