Almost half a century of “eating like a teenager and drinking like five of them” ends here

Frilly Keane writes:

Yep tis the season.

I’m back.

Tis the season alright; externally anyway. Hay saved, leaves browning and curling, colourful skies to hang over us as we come home from work, bodies multiplying like gremlins at bus stops (not today tho’) boilers being serviced, Strictly and X Factor, then its Countdown to Christmas and I’m a Celebrity.

This year, and I kinda knew since early summer that if I was coming back to ye after the Shut Down that I would be writing about what ye are about to claw into; Frilly’s Fiftieth Fit out; FFFo.
I have entered my 50th year.

I suppose the hardest thing about it is that it is now over 30 years since I did my leaving cert, and in 1985 I never looked beyond the next weekend, naw’ mind to when I might be 30 years old; yet here I am, looking back 30 years. It’s gasping how shocking it is really.

I had no idea it even passed since I never really felt it happening or watched it enough to actually see it. To be fair I worked and grafted through it and even breastfed for a bit of it. But it wasn’t hard work like laying tarmacadam, and it was far from a disciplined strict life work balance.

However I know all about it now. And that reality bite really hurts.

I’m tired. I have aches and pains from me shoulders to me toes and I’m over weight, and not just a bit’ve a girth, I have a mezzanine level that is now quite vulgar it’s that gaudy and unsightly.

But it’s all homemade, since I eat like teenager and drink like five of them. My lifestyle is so sh1t I actually get awarded Drive-Thru miles. Mayo and salt on everything and I’ve yet to see a salad that doesn’t look better with coleslaw and a glass of wine.

I have congenital spinal conditions that have in the last 5 years developed a by-product in a degenerative condition; all of which I can kinda actually manage without meds and surgical intervention; if I was arsed.

So that’s all where I am now. Those thirty years I mentioned? Well it’s all their fault, and it was all me, I wholly own the wreck of me.

But this one, my fiftieth year, is going to be different; I have drawn up the FFFo plan, and its sum’ting like this:

Alcohol is now rationed to 1 unit a day – or 7 in a week. (I’m saving up already) Dos’ are going to be cut off at 5 units, then its water, or bed.

I will, by Christmas, have stopped all sugar into the coffee tay etc; with coffee being limited to one pint a day. Lattes are already gone, and pretty soon so will a good 50% of my dairy consumption. In fact also gone are takeaways and eating on the road. My car is already showing the signs of it.

I will develop a thirst for still water that will need at least 3 litres a day, ideally 4. Up to now I didn’t drink water in any reportable quantity, other than what’s contained in other liquids.

I will do one type of physical exercise that is not walking the dog a week and when Easter comes, I will sea swim again, if not daily at least 3 times a week. Work permitting.

This is the part of my evolution that I am most ashamed of. In 1985 I was a just-about-to-retire International Competitor. FFS. Now I only go into a Gym facility to get a facial.

That bike in the garage is going to see daylight too … I might get meself a GoPro while I’m at it.

Anyway back to the FFFo.

I intend eliminating spuds completely, including crisps by Ash Wednesday. All that other white starchy carb stuff like pasta, rice, bread, all that lovely stuff, even when it’s not soaked in butter or creamy sauces will go thru a ‘how good was I today’ indexation calculation and assessment.
And any cake, and I love me cake, will only be consumed if it’s homemade.

So ok, so I know this is all a wtf is she shyting on about now; but hould’yer whists, I do have a reason.

You see, these next twelve months is the centre of a seesaw, to me anyway. My first 30 years of adulthood are gone, binged and scarred all over me and my organs. But next year, when I am actually 50, one way or another I will fully expect to live another 30 years, statistically anyway.

So will I spend them like the last 30? Or the next 12 months?

That’s what FFFo is all about. At the end of this 50th year I might be so full of the joys of a clean fit life that I might grow up into one of those marathon running grannies, be able to drink my own wee wee like Rosanna, and feel like a 20 sum’ting Yoga teacher.

I might not be. Who knows? If I am, I might decide it wasn’t worth the effort and continue to grow old disgracefully.

Maybe this year will be so miserable and boring that even if I look like Miriam O’Callaghan at next year’s All Ireland it still wouldn’t have been worth it; and it might even end the way it started – unfit (ish), fat and creaking like an Arthritis clinic.

FFFo is like taking my own test drive in myself, and I intend to make a daycent effort at it. I’ve even gone and sorted out my hair so it’s all grown up now.

So it won’t all be nettle tea and dried pineapple chunks, there’ll a blow out here and there, absolutely, and I do love my Christmas. But I just want to know if it’s worth the attention, control and abstinence.

I’ll keep ye updated, but one way or another, I’m losing 3 stones and getting back inta a 14.

Frilly keane’s column appears here every Friday morning. Follow Frilly on Twitter: @frillykeane

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