January; 10 weeks out;

Naked, standing in the backyard, waiting for the wind to drop.

I like to think I was partially prepared for the rigors of competition preparation. Dietary regime unrecognizable from my previous habits; not only being made aware of the notion of a time called 4:30am but being required to actively participate in this tick-o'-the-clock with morning exercise... but nothing prepared me for the effect my preparation would have on my husband.

Mick is an active lad, gym is his hobby and health and longevity are his goals in life. So I anticipated and welcomed his support and motivation. What I didn't expect was the sudden arrival of the massage table and 2litres of almond massage oil (and honey, its edible!) that arrived 3weeks after I started preparing. "So when your muscles get tight I can relax you," and "I've asked a few guys about pressure points massage and you can tell me where you are sorest". I must admit the emailed websites he sent me about clear shoes (you don't want straps 'cause they'll shorten your legs hon') also surprised me but culminating it all (and given I have three months left before the 'big' day I - may be premature in stating this) was the manifestation of a litre of spray- on tan.

'60 mls per spray they reckon', my man declares, reading from the bottle. " that'll give me... um... easy 700mls to practice my technique". My delicate response that we don't have a tanning sprayer met with a gleeful "I'll use the one we painted the house with; it's exactly the same!"

Sigh...

Which brings me back to being naked in the back yard.

Sprayer primed; my man goes to work - muttering to himself about technique and commanding changes in posture from his reluctant canvas. To deny him this opportunity seems akin to booting puppies, or denying children Christmas... I just couldn't do it.

So now I type, with skin shades darker than yesterday... my butt resembling an appaloosa's; feet like dark roast chicken breast (skin still on); my legs like that of a zebra (hang on honey, I've got a drip... just let me wipe it up with a damp chux...) and condemned to wearing long pants for the rest of the week until parts of me fade.

Worth it?

Oh yes. The man is happy and there are parts of me that look like the surface of our house - smooth colour application, pleasing hue. Long pants in the air-conditioning are no great price to pay for the learning of a new skill, but I can't help but wonder what's next?

February 6 weeks out

On the bed, sneakers on, waiting for inspiration

I wish we had a dog.

I love the cats, don't get me wrong. Einie is the light of my furry life and Minstrel is an affectionate delight - even with his eating compulsion. Without them our home would be a house and a hollow (if hair free) residence at that.

But....

I wish we had a dog.

If I had a dog it'd be at the bedside now, lead in its mouth, begging me to hurry up and lets get going there girlfriend! There are things to see out there, smells to take in, doggy neighbours to rouse as we go by.... Will you hurry up!!!! The day is wasting!!!!!! 4:30 is the perfect time of the morning to go strolling...

A dog could be my inspiration - and I need one today - it would coerce me and keep me company in the wee hours as I run, and lavish guilt on me for every moment I wasted procrastinating about going exercising. It wouldn't care that I hadn't brushed my hair or my teeth but if I cut out a hill climb or shortened the route by a street or even a corner there would be hell to play 'what do you mean we're not going there?? My friend is there!! I haven't barked at her or sniffed her butt since yesterday!! We have to go!! And there's my favorite tuft of grass I need to chew... we CAN'T stop now! And I would be convinced to step it out a little more.

But we don't...

....have a dog, I mean.

And I lie on the bed, still in my sneakers searching for a miracle of motivation. Michael has rolled over knowing he has an extra 40 min in bed before he needs to rise and start my breakfast (bless him).

Einstein splatters neatly on the bed beside me, touching my arm lightly with a soft paw. "Pardon me," his eyes say steadily, "but I couldn't help but notice your sandshoes in place - could you possibly see your way to portioning out our morning repast of biscuits as you leave our dwelling?" "Ple-a-a-s-e" his brother's eyes beg as he sits at the edge of the bed, "we're on the verge of starvation or we'd never dream of disturbing you" (of course that last comment might hold more weight if his back feet hadn't been rendered invisible by his overhanging belly).

So they're not 'a dog', and the cats are unashamedly self serving, but it does the trick and I get out of bed... but how to get them to come jogging with me...?

March 3 weeks to go

Delirious ramblings of a carb depleted mind

Having just returned from my morning cardio... and I must digress here - what is it about compulsive exercise that transforms our language? When did 'jogging' or a morning walk/ stroll become 'cardio'; when did breakfast lunch and tea become carb-ing up, protein meals, 'cheat' and 'treat' meals. I chat to family members and I swear they barely understand me anymore - they just nod politely and pray the madness isn't contagious.

Back to the cardio issue; why am I constantly apologizing to people when they enquire about my rapidly changing form? It's an obscure hobby, its true, body building they can conceptualize; modeling they can appreciate but this sort of body sculpting? I get blank looks and an 'oh ... ok.... Don't waste away will you?" Although, I guess, you can see their point because whenever normal people see me I'm in normal clothes - and everything looks like it belongs to my older (fatter) sister. I resist buying clothes that I will literally only be able to fit into for a month at the most (and I hardly have spare time or lucidity to make good choices anyway); and the result is I have a body too lean for off-the-rack clothes. In fact at nearly forty I am the possessor of a bod that only looks good in the lycra and stretch gymwear that in the regular universe only pre-teens and competitive athletes should wear.

Even as a competitor who has just spent the last 3 months refining her diet, learning cardio fitness habits (albeit reluctantly) and pumping serious iron I find myself bemused by the judging criteria even as I prepare to submit myself to its scrutiny. And the lengths you have to go to obtain it. At the gym you mention the tired-ness and mindless fugue state you're wallowing in and other pre-competitors nod sagely. 'Ah yes' they acknowledge "its like that in the last few weeks."

My husband (dream man that he is) mourns the passing of regular sex, I know, and its not like I refuse... he just reckons he'd prefer to wait until both parties were actually participating and conscious of the event. Although he did mention the other day that that might not be necessary after all...

April 8 days to go...

I sit gingerly on my ball today. The trauma of the afternoon has yet to fade from my consciousness to a level I can be objective - and the post-adrenaline slump is, I'm sure, fogging my ability to reason.

Today much to Michael's delight, I subjected myself to the pinnacle of female insanity: a g-string wax - just to spare myself the embarrassment of having sideburns peek from my costume you understand.

You'll note I do not say "brazilian'- and having experienced the aforementioned g sting depletion I understand the vast canyon of pain that must lie between the torture I endured and the reality of 'getting it all off'. I cannot conceive why you would subject yourself to going 'the full monty' (& pay for the privilege)... but I do understand how much worse it must be.

I find myself misquoting Mel Gibson from the movie 'What Women Want" after he experiences leg waxing - a bouncing puppy when compared to uprooting pubes might I add!-:
"How do.. (women)... they ever (go back to do it again?????)".

I sat on the waxing bed clad in T shirt and disposable pants. The pants appeared to be the poor cousins of surgical hair nets - papery yes but without the job satisfaction hairnets display. I soon found out why my paper pants were so discontent. "Just hold them away from the area we're doing" I'm instructed again and again, meaning my bits are forever exposed to the cold, and (not so) public view of the terminally pleasant, wax-wielding stranger. "why wear them at all?" I gasp weakly, faint from the pain of the job partly done and the dread of the bit left to do. "oh, they make people feel better, you know?" comes the reply. I don't, (know, that is) but the mystery is torn from my mind as another glob of now cooled wax is levered from my skin taking roots of hair reluctantly with it, leaving tortured, gibbering follicles screaming at the loss like Italian grandmothers mourning a bad marriage.

However that pain runs to insignificance when my waxer then attempted to remove the hair from my mons. "Good god" I yell " did you take skin too??" She looks surprised. "I just want to be sure nothing will peek from the costume", she simpered, and I see the maniacal gleam in her eye, ' I'll have to do the other side now or you'll be lop-sided."
"Are you mad?? Who's gonna see it??? Keep your damned wax to yourself!" I snarl. I'd leap from the table but the pain has caused a vagal response and I'm not sure I won't faint.

Maybe that's why this waxing requires you to lift one leg at a time above your head...

Helen Eyles
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