I've been watching a bit of the Comm Games and as I sit here, my arse spreading itself comfortably over the lounge, I am struck by how these elite athletes say they are gonna celebrate their success.
Sally Pearson said she was gonna hook into a packet of Tim Tams. Bugger me!! If that's the standard, I must have been a Comm champ every day for years.
It is almost impossible for this couch potato to imagine the sacrifice needed to compete on the world stage. The fat fairy would need to arrive with a very large empty wheelbarrow and steal away half my body weight before I could even begin to start on the training regime, of cardboard and no sugar or fat - deep fried Mars Bars are the Devil's Temptation.
Celebrations have always been driven by FOOD and DRINK. Where to EAT, what to EAT how to EAT, and drink drink drink. And god knows that there has not been anything comparable to celebrate.
I have enjoyed watching athletes squeal with delight and their concentration and focus loosen up morphing into utter joy. It must be this utopian endorphin rush that forms the basis of their celebration. Of course I am not all that convinced that this rush would be better than a glass or bottle of bubbles and a big bowl of creamy pasta followed by a walloping chunk of cheesecake, but then I am not the fastest, fittest, most flexible anything, but don't stand between me and a biscuit.
It's entirely possible that if Sally Pearson was presented with a pic of me tucking in, and she was told to pop it on her fridge, then she could well be motivated to do whatever it takes to avoid looking like THAT.
In fact I reckon that's what I should do. I could be the ANTI motivator.
Ooh goodie. I have a part to play. Yippee.
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