Tag Archives: jeans

System Shutdown – Prepare to Standby …

shutdownYou just know, don’t you?

As soon as you wake in the morning, get up and fallĀ smack into the nearest wall, you just know.

MS is not only content with corrupting your system, it’s staging a total takeover bid.

I had one of those days yesterday.

Usually, I can keep stuff under wraps, get on with life despite the inner physical and mental turmoil that MS brings. Not so on one of those days.

My vision was blurred, I was exhausted and I felt utterly, totally crushed. I could feel my brain shutting down to Basic Mode.

Inside, I was horrified. Worst case scenarios were filtering into what was left of my brain. My main aim was to get through the day and still appear relatively normal to The Teenager; so long as I could nod and smile in the appropriate places, hand out some money and put a wash on, I was covering all bases.

The Teenager had other ideas: he fancied a heart-to-heart about the football relegation zone, who was headlining the Reading Festival next year (gah) and the merits of various protein shakes. I nodded and smiled in the appropriate places. I think.

I fell asleep on the sofa at 10am and woke up three hours later to find a glass of squash with a post-it note from The Teenager attached, reading, ‘Good Morning! (smiley face)’.

Later on we had the Loose Jeans Drama. He was going out for a sixth form party. He got dressed (over several hours). Finally, he came flopping down the stairs, arms swinging loosely, an angry look on his face.

‘Look, just, like, look.’

‘Oh. Very nice dear. You look lovely.’

‘No. I don’t. Look. I can’t go. Looks stooopid.’

Pause. His hair? His shirt? Not enough Lynx? Too much? I had to be very, very tactful.

‘Er, you look, well, so handsome.’

‘Yeah, right, mums always say that, like, d’ur. Noooooo. My jeans.’

An hour-long drama cut short, he has lost a lot of weight at the gym. His jeans are loose. Very loose.

‘Well, it just shows off how much weight you’ve lost? Hmm? No?’

‘Ahhhhhh. You just don’t understand. Can I have a tenner?’

He left in a whirl of Facebook updates and texts, cursing his jeans. I collapsed. I have no idea how I survived the day. A day spent doing nothing except lying on the sofa, unable to concentrate, frightened and hoping that tomorrow would be different. It was an MS blip. We all have them?

I lay virtually unmoving until 9pm and crawled into bed. I slept for nine hours straight, woke up, didn’t tripĀ into the wall and life looked a little, only a little, brighter. For now.

As for The Teenager, he had a great time at the party, even with loose jeans.

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Make Mine A Large One

With pleasure comes pain. The bacon butties and biscuits I have happily munched on since working for the builder have wreaked havoc on my figure, my muffin top morphing from a skinny raspberry into a full-blown, full-fat double chocolate chip with whipped cream on the side.

I had to face the awful reality that it was time for one of the most humiliating and sad events in any woman’s life.

Nope, I wasn’t going to join a slimming club, I was going jeans shopping. Guaranteed to strike fear into the heart, I was going to be very brave and thank my lucky stars that communal changing-rooms had been outlawed in the 1990’s, along with shoulder pads, dodgy perms and ra-ra skirts.

And so I found myself wandering around shops where the sales assistants were young, hip and terrifyingly thin, showcasing the latest hot-off-the press fashion looks. I furtively flicked through the rails, depressingly starting at the back where the larger sizes huddled in shame. A quick glance round and I shoved a couple of pairs over my arm, cleverly tucking the size labels inwards.

Off to the changing room where a tiny sylph-like creature smirked as she slowly counted my items, handed me a plastic disc and waved me off to a cubicle towards the back. Half an hour later, I was red-faced, exhausted and depressed. Whoever said skinny jeans suit everyone clearly lied.

My MS balance (or lack of it) turned trying on five pairs of jeans into a farce. One leg in and I was pinballing off the sides of the cubicle. Two legs in and I was jumping around like a demented person on a pogo-stick.

When I could finally stand still, I was lucky enough to see my sorry figure from numerous angles, many of which I had never seen before, thanks to the eight different mirrors. I really do need to pick up that kettlebell for longer than three minutes at a time.

I found a pair I could live with, handed it over at the cash desk, not fooling the girl at all when I announced, ‘Oh, I’m sure my friend will love these!’ I left the store, turned a sharp right and headed for sanctuary. A coffee shop, where I ordered a large latte with an extra shot and the biggest muffin I could find…

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