- weight: 70.5kg
- breakfast: 2 instant prata + leftover chicken curry
- snack: 7 cookies, i think
- dinner: steamed jasmine rice + black pepper beef with broccoli and bell peppers + carrot soup + 1.5 eggs omelette
- snack: 4 cookies
today, it’s clear why i’ve eaten a hundred cookies over the past three days, Aunt Flo’s in town and all the uncontrollable cravings for sugar and barbequed meat have magically disappeared (into 1kg spread unevenly around my tummy). this also means i can no longer use the “i feel out of sorts” excuse and skip going to the gym tomorrow onwards.
- weight: 70kg
- breakfast: weetabix mini chocs + warm whole milk
- snack: 1 choc coated date rolled in shredded coconut
- planned lunch: steamed jasmine rice + beef kicap + stir fried cabbage and carrots
- planned dinner: 2 slices wholemeal bread + beef kicap + organic soyabean milk
for some reason, breasts have been the topic du mois.
for some mysterious reason unknown to womankind, my friends and i started talking about our breasts simultaneously on MSN in separate conversation topics interspersed with gossip on people long forgotten who’ve crept up on us on Friendster, thoughts on psychotic Muslims who taint the good milk that are the moderate Muslims, how the Catholic Church and other organized religions rein us in by dousing us in guilt so we can set ourselves alight in hellfire and how, how, how do we lose 10kg when we just love, love, love food?
one’s got average-sized boobs but would love if she didn’t have any boobs at all. one’s got two motherships of milk oceans and is so worried about the sags. one’s got stretchmarks more extensive than all of the fractures in the earth’s crust. one’s got perfect, symmetrical boobs and has no complaints other than the fact that her bikini collection of 47 pairs is too small. one’s got AA boobs and is finally beginning to see why this is good for her.
i only have one bikini top (and the bottom must have been stolen by a creepy visitor) because i think the sun is only for necessary vitamin D production, photosynthesis so the cows i love to eat can have enough grass to grow fat on, and for finding ear rings in spots behind the bookcase which the rays of a ceiling light just cannot reach.
a few years back, the wife of an ex-colleague talked excitedly of an array of cosmetic procedures after a female cousin who was so ugly she looked like an ugly man, sashayed back like a hot, exotic Asian model. my excitement at meeting her beautiful cousin was absolutely deflated after i found out everything i loved about her wasn’t real. her eyes, her forehead, her cheeks, her nose, her lips, her body, her boobs, everything about her wasn’t real. then i found out another lady had practically everything done too, months after i was in absolute adoration of her natural Thai beauty. apparently she looked nothing like that before all the surgeries, “just look at her sons” quipped the ex-colleague’s wife.
both times, i felt cheated when i found out.
oh my, am i anti-plastic surgery?
i talk of getting boob implants all the time because after watching Dolly Parton at 6, nobody should have smaller boobs than the ballpark that is Parton-ted boobs, but i don’t actually want boob implants. i, like a lot of other women, just love putting myself down in the presence of other women while praising them to no end because women love the see-saw effect of the pulley system – i’ll pull you up if you’ll pull me up. it’s our disease, you know, like how most men do not understand that the laundry basket is not the sink or the tile beside the shoe rack.
growing up, we were taught to appreciate all we had, not to disrespect the body that God had given us. as if on cue, we all proceeded to pig out on Long John’s Silver’s $2.99 meals every single day (because Super Size Me was not in production yet), made out with the wrong boys and pierced our temples of God with shiny metal implements in places your mother still hopes never to see in public.
i’d spent enough time of my life in hospital beds and physiotherapy rooms to understand how important plastic surgery is for people to get on with their lives. it’s difficult to walk on the streets with kids pointing at you, screaming like as though you’re the Boogeyman incarnate because a quarter of your skull is missing. it was clear in my mind during those formative years that plastic surgery was a good thing, it had to be done out of sheer necessity.
then suddenly the teen years hit and there were all these impossibly perfect girls and women on magazines. and the first time i found out that Pammie’s boobs weren’t real, i was crushed. i thought Nature was many a splendored thing and Pammie was many a splendored alright, but it turned out that she was as real as the plastic in the nipple-less boobs of my childhood Barbie dolls. what puzzled me then was that Pammie was more beautiful before her slew of cosmetic procedures.
and then i understood, because i realised that like every other woman on the planet, i have body dysmorphic disorder and i too have a list of things i’d like to correct
- i’d like a slightly slimmer, smaller nose (apparently, i risk looking like MJ)
- i’d like a shorter forehead because i look like E.T. (apparently this makes me look like a doll and is endearing)
- i’d like some fats sucked out of my cheeks (apparently this also makes me look like a doll)
- i’d like thinner lips (when it gets to this point, people usually think i’m severely delusional and start recommending therapy)
- don’t get me started on the body
but then again – not really.
i don’t need to grace magazine covers, and if i ever do, let it be on public record that i’d like to be there because i’ve found a cure for human stupidity. i don’t care if people opt for cosmetic surgery, the one form of medicine which is mostly self-diagnosed. if it makes ’em feel like having a smaller nose helps them take over the world, go ahead, get a smaller nose if that’s the boost you need to take over the world. if you need lipo because you’ve worked out like hell and can’t, no matter what, lose that 5cm stretch of deadfat, go ahead, you deserve it. if you were cursed with severely asymmetrical boobs and are terrified of being seen in a bikini, go ahead, get that corrected.
just don’t end up looking like a strange cat woman or like a completely different person altogether. or get those DD boobs because you’re afraid to lose your boyfriend – dump the boyfriend.
we’ve complained for years, but we’re getting to the stage where we’ve started to see the payoffs of the Humble Average Boob. we love that we don’t have to flake off cakes of dirt under our boobs that some of our better-endowed friends have complained of. we love that doing the Jumping Jacks doesn’t hurt like a goddamn bitch. we love that we can prance around bra-less. we love that we can wash dishes without boobs in the way. we love that our boobs have not started sagging under heavy gravitational pressure.
then my well-endowed friend said “wait till you get pregnant, dali, just you wait” as she wagged her finger at me.
but i think when her revenge does arrive sometime in the future, we will all find a way to love our newfound saggy boobs and laugh about it.
because it’s not really about the boob, isn’t it?