The tinsel is long gone, as are the glitter-ridden (and now alcohol stained) party dresses. With Christmas now a distant memory, so are many of our post-party resolutions. For most of us, the quest to lose our so called Xmas belly has been long-forgotten, turning ‘holiday weight’ into, well, just weight. That unsightly bulge can no longer be explained away as the temporary result of festive indulgence and has instead taken its place (mostly spilling out the top of your jeans) as a permanent spare tyre; that exercise bike (bought in the January sales in a fit of mince-pie induced shame) has become a graveyard for all of those clothes you are now unable to fit into.
However, there are those women for whom exercise/detoxxing/eating organic is not a fad, but a way of life. Let me introduce you to… The Little Miss Perfects. An army of alien robots sent here from the outer realms of space to make us mere (fat and lazy) mortals feel inadequate; or, so I like to believe. Harmless though they are (other than to our ego's obviously) we spend our time secretly wishing exercise-resistant cellulite and premature grey-hair upon them. That’s just how we’re wired. It is of course, probably (O.K., O.K… definitely) the result of jealously. We secretly aspire to join their elite ranks, and our wish to become them followed by our ultimate failure causes resentment. Now - this is when I am supposed to tell you that our bitterness towards them, unfounded as it is, is morally wrong. However… It feels bloody good doesn’t it? The secret joy we feel when they have gained a pound or are having a sh*t hair day feels absolutely fabulous and we all know it. This reaction may not be the classiest but may be excused as a coping mechanism, a form of self presevation- and who would deny us that? And anyway, far be it from me to deny another person success. The real issue I have with this race of super-beings is not their ability to thrive at everything they do, but the smugness they do it with. Good on you if you managed to get out of bed at 7am to go for a run! But as proof that you are indeed a human being, and not an alien robot, I want to hear that waking up at such an ungodly hour left you feeling horrendous, not fresh and that exercising at such a time was torture, not invigorating.
That said, I must point out that I am in fact a hypocrite. Whilst I still regularly enjoy a glass of wine too many, fail to prepare for my seminars on time (or at all) and can often be seen sporting the panda-eye look, I have recently attempted to change my exercise habits. This wasn’t a challenge as such: my previous exercise regime included reaching for the last slice of garlic bread and not much else. I have added to this not-so healthy activity Pilates, ab-tone classes, circuits and spinning (the latter I must admit has fallen by the way-side, due to the fact that it is quite simply torture on a bike). I can see my former self now, shaking her head in revulsion at this sudden burst of pro-activeness, especially as (and much to my own disgust, I assure you) I have become a right smug little madam about it. “Oh sorry, I cant come out tonight I have a Pilates class in the morning, don’t you know?” … “Oh yes, wonderful way to start the day!”. Even as I write this the urge to punch myself is over-whelming. Normally I would be the person delivering a suitably evil stare over my heavily glazed doughnut as these words were uttered, not be the person delivering them. But I can’t seem to help myself, the urge to gloat just a little bit is too irresistible. As I lose one vice, I gain another (more irritating) one. What can I say? If you can’t beat them, join them.
But dont write me off just yet. Whilst I have taken a small and tentative step to becoming one of them I am still flawed in many other weird and wonderful ways: my nail varnish is still almost always chipped; I am still constantly fighting an uphill battle to keep my room crockery and clothes-mountain free; I am the queen of procrastination (what do you think I’m doing right now?); and, even if I do wash my clothes I forget about them, leaving them to rot in the machine until I am back to square one.
And so, I will not, in the foreseeable future (or realistically ever) become a Little Miss Perfect. So whilst I must beg for forgiveness for my occasionly smug ways (and lets face it this probably won’t last forever and so perhaps I deserve my moment of glory) I can assure you I am more than lacking in other areas. While a bit of me shall always aspire to be a Little Miss Perfect what we should remember is that whilst the life of these women may appear enviable, all work and no play makes Little Miss Perfect a very dull girl. So while she has the toned body to kill for, the perfectly manicured nails and probably always knows where her keys are, we “under-achievers” have a life-time of unpredictable, messy but wonderful memories (and possibly a hefty hangover); to me, those are the most enviable assets of all. So, sod the Pilates class and let's crack open another bottle of wine.
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