2020 is an Utter Beach

Got through a third term of 100% online teaching. Just. And you know what got me through? The idea of a trip away to the beach. Several days of sun, sand and swimming.

Heaven!

Thinking of a beach holiday dangled in front of me enticingly as I clawed my way through battles with blue-light induced headaches, carpal tunnel issues and computer posture that makes me look like Quasimodo.

My partner found an amazing place for us to stay. Hurrah to him for finding the place, and another hurrah that I did not have to do the searching – that’s a win for delegation. Well done Rach, I congratulated myself – “You are bossing adulting!”

The place is big so he suggested inviting one of his buddies. I said, “Sure, no problem. It’ll be exciting to see someone else after seven months of isolation.”

Seven months of strict lock down measures.

Seven months of very little exercise – despite living in gym wear 24/7.

Seven months of anxiety eating.

Seven months weight gain.

Seven months of being a quarantine swamp monster.

All that on top of having gone into this global pandemic with baby weight still to lose.

So let us just quietly and solemnly acknowledge that my self-image is just as flabby and untoned as my belly right now.

Still, who cares right? Sun, sand, swimming…heaven!

So, there I was, imagining myself diving into the crystalline waters of the place’s swimming pool a couple of days ago when my beloved broke my reverie to chat about the trip. To nonchalantly tell me that his buddy was going to bring along his on-off again girlfriend…

An ex Miss Peru!

LIKE REALLY! Crown, sceptre, sash and all. You have got to be kidding me!!! Whoever or whatever pulls the marionette strings of destiny has a warped fucking sense of humour!

The one thing I was looking forward to, clinging onto after this shitshow of a year, has become a source of full-blown anxiety. Ever since I have been mentally comparing my 40-year-old, three-childrened beach bod with Ex Miss Peru - trying to figure out how to make a quick wit and ‘great personality’ look hawt in a bikini.

It turns out breakfast, followed by second breakfast, elevenses, lunch, afternoon tea and dinny-din-dins to close out the culinary day, sustained over seven months is not the recipe for rock hard abs. I can sense your disbelief! Of course, I now desperately regret all those French toast Sunday mornings. I mean who wants warm, fuzzy family memories to bolster up an otherwise shitty 2020 when the result is belly fat rolls? Right?

It also turns out, perplexingly, that mentally planning to do 6am meditation and yoga each evening as I drift off into a smug sleep and then waking and doing none of the meditation and yoga is not conducive to a toned body.

I am as shocked as you are.

A wonderful friend said to me, “Darling, you are accomplished, smart, fun, funny AND gorgeous. She is just pretty and thin.” I smiled and nodded as I mentally weighed up whether the idea of using my eyeliner to draw on six-pack abs, or just not eating a thing for a week was viable.

Actually though. It is not about little Miss Peru. I am sure she is lovely. It is about me, and my inability to make time and space for myself. It is about me and my misplaced psychological schema that equates successful parenting with being exhausted, with sacrifice and with giving yourself away piece by piece.

Speaking of pieces, I am now preparing to purchase the first one-piece swimsuit I have had since I was about 12. As I do this, I have had to recognise that this is a necessary kick up my jiggly arse. A call to (tone) arms. The fates are marshalling me to ditch the marshmallows, get moving and make self-care more of a priority.

So I mentally pulled myself up by the g-strings (the actual expression is boot straps isn't it? So that play on words doesn't reaaallly work, but I am not changing it) and willed myself to make more of an effort and de-swampify.

In that vein, I dyed my hair to cover the greys that online teaching and a toddler have induced this year. Contented with my work, I decided to take my home spa-ing one-step further and wax my eyebrows and upper lip. Came out instantly in massive, itchy welts all over my face – fml.

I sent my partner off on an emergency mission to the pharmacy to get antihistamines as I scratched at my face. He came back with tablets for cold sores. I screamed at him, "It's not a cold sore. I don't have fucking herpes!!! Don't you dare tempt 2020 with giving me that!!"

Following that little spa disaster, I have mentally slapped myself for, at age 40, still having insecurities about stupid body stuff.

My body is a warrior that has grown and born three kiddies and continues to do all the things I want it to (although I would quite like to still be able to do the splits), I also have curves that many women pay lots of $$$ for - and in honour of that, I am going to jiggle around the swimming pool in the coming days with a cocktail in hand like its my job.

By Rachel Moore