Tag Archives: Weight

Something Tastes Better than Skinny!

I have an obsession with skinny jeans; I want what I can’t wear. Skinny jeans are funky; instant style for people with an ass in proportion with the rest of their body. I am by no means fat, but I have fairly bulky thighs. Skinny jeans cling to my thighs and then plummet baggily from my knees. The resultant look is a leotard.

I’ve lost a considerable amount of weight since January. My wardrobe has halved in size. My once fitted jeans are now loose. I am at that irritating between-sizes-phase; clothes are either too tight or too loose. I ventured into Brown Thomas last night to check out the sales. Jeans were reduced by 50%.

Brown Thomas conveniently divide up their jeans by styles; “boot cut”, “baggy”, “straight leg”, “skinny” and “slim”. I had never seen “slim” before. In the slim category were two brands, Acne and Diesel. I picked up four pairs in varying colours. To the changing room I went.

Of all four pairs, the Acne grey jeans looked best; neither too tight nor too loose. They looked so good I almost thanked Holy God there and then. The jeans were originally priced at €170. I secured them for €52.

They look like skinny jeans, but do not look like they were applied with spray paint. These shall be my “slimmy jeans”. I’m chuffed with my purchase.

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Brace Yourself

I am a twenty seven year old, braces wearing adult. This is hard to embrace sometimes. My mates and I have shared many a giggle in my attempt to cope with my mouth-paraphernalia through humour. Over the past six weeks of having braces, I have encountered numerous highs and lows along the route that will lead to a perfect smile. Here is a list of some peaks and troughs:

Dribble; for the first week or two, I had problems with excess saliva. I dribbled on myself numerous times. I was like a stroke victim. Most mornings I continue to wake up in a pillow full of drool. I worry about staining the pillow cases of my friends when I stay over. Dribbling gets particularly bad when I am hungry. My mouth gushes with spittle in the anticipation of nourishment.

Mouth Ulcers; this is by far the worst aspect of having braces. For the first few weeks, ulcers formed on my cheeks and tongue. I thought they’d never subside. Talking and eating was so difficult it impacted my mood. Ulcers are no longer a problem since my discovery of miracle product Aloclair. The creator of this product should be sainted in my opinion. I have set up a shrine to this person.

Speech; the dual effects of ulcers and excess saliva had a severe impact on my speech. Notable moments include asking for “two thoffees” in a café. During a conversation, I once referred to London and New York as “big sissies”. Luckily, over a month or so, I have adapted. I now over-pronounce words like a dodgy Shakespearian actor. I continue to have bad days when hung-over or tired.

Food; eating was so difficult that I gave it up for a few weeks. Food stuff just kept getting tangled. I shed a significant amount of weight. I’m unable to bite into things since my front teeth are sensitive. Foods like chips, rice and lettuce are avoided. I’ve brushed my teeth in a posh restaurant bathroom. Once, during a run, a small piece of ginger dislodged somewhere from my brace. It made for an unpleasant surprise.

Men; I reckon I am more conscious of my braces than other people are. On the rare occasion I am chatted up, I fear the guy might notice my train tracks and do a U-turn. A guy like this is obviously not worth knowing. I should think of it as a screening process. Should I meet Mr Nice, I have a mental image of him leaning in for a kiss and getting his tongue getting caught in my metallic finish. This is clearly ridiculous, but it has crossed my mind.

Overall, I know braces are not forever. I am gradually getting used to them. Part of my treatment requires me wearing a jaw expander for five months. I’ve posted a picture of this below. When the orthodontist presented this to me, I stared in disbelief, gawping at its considerable size. Within minutes he lodged it into my gob. I reckon this piece of equipment could convert a guy to Judaism within a few seconds.

 

 

 

Whoopsie Daisy

Early one Sunday night, a few friends and I had beers outside the Ocean Bar. This was two weekends ago. The weather had been glorious. We gathered on the jetty of Grand Canal Dock. The evening slowly cooled but not so much that an eclectic group of people sat by the waterfront. Plenty of sun scorched, red flesh was on display. The eye candy was top notch. A friend and I returned from the off licence bearing beers. We strolled towards the waterfront, absorbing  the many sights.

In front of the marina hangs a chain not of exceptional height. The lowest part reaches my knees. This obstacle separated us from our friends. I lifted my leg to what I presumed was an adequate height. My toes caught the chain. I tripped and fell forward. My trip swung the chain, causing my companion to also tumble. I quickly apologised. Pain ran through my shin. It throbbed and stang sharply. It was then I realised dozens of people potentially had witnessed my awkwardness. Surprisingly, there was no cheer. I limped away agonisingly.

We arrived at our patch on the marina; I recounted the incident to my friends.

Jeni corrected me. “No, Stephen! You fell! You fell on your own and took me down with you. Miraculously, neither of us dropped one beer.”

This is not the first time I have tripped over a railing. A few years ago, on a beautiful, sunny day on the canal near Baggott Street, a significant number of people sat with their food on the adjacent grassy bank. I left work for lunch,  intending to cross the canal. A similar obstacle awaited me; a chain railing. I attempted an elaborate run and jump. Following a quick dash, I sailed gracefully through the air. The toe on my – perhaps too – pointy shoe clipped the chain. I landed flat on my face with my arms outstretched before me. I lay face down on the grass for a nanosecond, momentarily, coming to terms with the incident. A loud cheer erupted from the many diners. I was mortified. I dusted myself down and vacated the area speedily. Later, returning to the office via the same route, I prayed I would not be recognised. There was no more applause.

I recall other clumsy events in addition to my inability to scale knee high railings: A few months ago, I walked into a filing cabinet at work. This filing cabinet has been in the same place for months. One particular day, my spatial awareness took a vacation. I walked straight into it. Then there was the time I walked into the row of desks; extremely painful. So hard was my collision that the entire row of desks shook. The occupants looked puzzled. I attempted to mask my limp. I whined under my breath with each painful step. There are occasions I’ve bungled basic things like walking. I have walked into the gate outside my house, missed a kerb on Parnell Street, missed another kerb on the Navan Road and tore the knee out of an expensive suit when I fell running for a bus.

Last night I visted Boots on Grafton Street to look for a toothbrush. On a typically, disorganised aisle, I lowered to my hunkers to examine the shelf. I balanced my weight on my right leg. A man walked by. I caught him in the corner of my eye. It was then I fell over on my side. He jumped out of the way. My considerable mass avoided him. I sat flat on my ass, looked up and apologised. We both laughed. He was genuinely tickled by the incident. About ten minutes later I met him at the cash point. He giggled as soon as he saw me. My clumsiness brought a smile to someone’s face.

I frequently discover purple and yellow bruises when in the shower. More than often I cannot pinpoint the cause. At the moment my left shin is yellow from the remnants of a bruise. My right knee is scabbed from the chain railing. This pain has prompted me to read around the subject of clumsiness. There are many theories to why people are clumsy. Common causes are imbalance, fatigue, lack of spatial awareness, bad eyesight and insomnia. I discussed this at lunch today. Some colleagues advised I should invest in a bracelet containing magnets to correct what ever imbalance I have in my magnetic fields. I dismissed this as hooey.

I don’t need magic, magnetic bracelets. What I need is a colossal amount of padding to reduce the impact for when I ultimately collide with stationary objects.

The Life of Ryan

I have confirmation of how influential my blog is. Pat Kenny obviously read my blog entry that complimented his hosting of the Late Late Show the night the senators received a much deserved bashing. On the basis of my compliments he handed in his notice. I helped him realise he is suited to current affairs. Congratulations to Pat. He made the right call. His decision led to massive speculation by the media on who would fill his position. The lovely ladies, Miriam O’Callaghan and Grainne Seoige were top favourites. RTE bosses decided to give the job to Ryan Tubridy.

I am not sure how I feel about Ryan’s appointment. He and I have a tolerate/hate relationship. He is a good talk show host, but there things about him that irritate me. The first is he is too thin. Would he call the Gardaí if I showed up at his house one evening with a freshly baked pie? Put some weight on, man! The second is that he talks waaaay too fast. He and fellow RTE colleague, Dave Fanning, are celebrated for their gift of the gab. If anyone listened to the content coming out of Ryan’s and Dave’s mouths, they’d realise they talk nothing but shite.

Ryan is scheduled to début on the Late Late Show 4th September 2009. I might just tune in to see how he fares.

Ryan Tubridy

Jelly Belly

My exams ended just over a week ago. During the weeks leading up to my exams, I ate circles around me. If something was edible, I consumed it. For those few weeks, my existence was akin to Homer Simpson in the Land of Chocolate. I lived only to eat. By the time the exams ended, I was impressed by the fact I had put on only a little weight. There was a slight belly, but nothing colossal. I must be super fit to not have gotten fat from the random boxes of cereal and Rollo yoghurts I consumed, I reckoned. For those few weeks I had no restraint.

Lastnight, I went shopping. I was more than due to pay homage to the high-end labels (I had not seen since last week). I am 6ft 1/1m 85cm with a fairly OK body. Generally, clingy, tailored clothes look good on me. The reason I consider high end labels my friend is that they, like a truthful and often blunt friend, will tell me if I am not conforming to their ideal body type. In BT2, I tried on a few T-shirts by Junk de Luxe. I love Junk de Luxe’s style. It has the perfect balance of preppy and funk. Junk de Luxe were about to deliver a moment of truth. 

In the changing room I stripped off. I really hate changing rooms. They remind me of that awful box Trinny and Susannah lock individuals in to show them their body. Trinny and Susannah force the captive to come to terms with the positive aspects of their body. It is cringe worthy. In my box (or changing room) I saw the colossal stomach on me – wakeup call. Where the hell did that come from? I asked myself.  It appeared I put more weight on than I thought. I refrained from buying any clingy, tight T-shirts. I even went for a run, when I got home.

This isn't me by the way.

This isn't me by the way.

Metric, it will change your life

I am not one for New Year’s resolutions, but this year I decided to make two. One of them is to make peace with the people I fell out with during 2008. That will probably take all of 2009. The other resolution is to go metric. I work with loads of continentals who don’t understand the concept of a miles, pounds etc. I’m forced to translate on a regular basis. I used to be fluent in metric until I moved home to Ireland in the 90s. For this reason I have made a conscious decision to revert back to it. I intend to embrace the change. The first change is my height. Firstly, I have to admit I don’t even know how many inches are in a foot. How bad is that? When someone asks me my height, I tell them I am 6’ 1”. My height is now altrered; I am now 185 centimetres tall. Don’t I sound taller? I exercise a lot. I used to run five miles three times a week, but I am giving this up. I will replace my five mile runs with 8 kilometre runs. This sounds much longer. I already feel so much fitter. I exercise hard to reduce body fat, but since going metric I feel so much lighter. I used to weigh fourteen and a half stone. I now weigh 93 kilos. Metric has made me feel so much healthier. I am just not sure where I should stop though. The other night in the pub we were having a bit of a sing song. An old favourite by the Proclaimers came on. I just couldn’t stick to the correct words – “and I would walk eight hundred and four kilometres and I would walk eight hundred and four kilometres more, just to be that man …” I did get a few looks, but I realise one has to suffer this when a pioneer. Metric has drastically improved my life. I think you should try it, too.