The problem with having your hair professionally straightened is that you don't want to do anything wet or sweaty for the 2 or 3 days your hair is in perfect, Jennifer Aniston condition and this isn't a good thing if you're trying to reduce a couple of centimetres off your butt and thighs.
There are four types of exercise that I like to do here: powerwalk (sweaty), yoga (sweaty, because it's so humid, not because I put in as much effort as Rodney Yee), cycling (especially sweaty as the bike has no gears) and swimming (wet, obviously).
But I have to exercise not just because of my arse and the fact that I weigh 66.6 kg and that I can no longer fit into a pair of pants that fit me perfectly less than 2 months ago, but also because I am on day 3 of the just returned from somewhere to nowhere blues.
These blues can last from three days to a week and I must battle them.
Yesterday, before I got my hair straightened at the camp salon, I power sauntered along the winding country road, past the strips of drying shrimp to the beach. There I sat watching the fishing boats drifting on the water and felt lonely and sorry for myself.
But I think it's ok to feel sorry for yourself on a beach--it's not the same as lying in bed, curled up in the fetal position, in a dark room in the middle of the day. Anyway, I was thinking--in spite of my own personal pity party-- as I watched the boats and the white caps, of a quaint French expression my father in law uses when he looks out the window at the Mediterranean Sea on a breezy day. When he sees white caps, he says something like, oh look at the fluffy sheep. Les moutons.
White caps really do look like fluffy little sheep. And sometimes, if you're not paying attention as you contemplate sheep and loneliness, those moutons come stampeding at full speed and you're nearly doused by a rogue wave.
Ah, screw the hair, I'm off for a bike ride.
