Too much

Many, many years ago, when I was single and fancy free, I was accosted by my ex’s current girlfriend in a gym changing room. She had taken an unhealthy interest in me, probably fuelled by her boyfriend’s similarly unhealthy interest. She was mad because she had seen her boyfriend give me a birthday gift. How this was my fault remains a mystery to this day. She proceeded to try and scream in my face (as I remember it, my face was quite some distance above hers) “I don’t know what he sees in you, you stuck up bitch. You’re too much. Too much tits, too much arse, too much thighs, too much hair, too much nose, too much smile, too much talk!”

To this day I am still proud of my calm reply “You forgot too tall - and too much is obviously better than not enough, because your boyfriend loves me.”

One of the things I have always been strong on is unashamedly being who I am. The older I’ve got the less I care what others think of me. If you don’t like me, if you find me too much, that is sad, but it is not my problem. I have watched too many people going through their lives trying too hard to be liked. Remember: you will be too much for some people but they are not your people. Cut them loose.

I have weight trained since I was 19 years old. I love it. I love feeling powerful and the muscle mass helps keep my bones strong and my metabolism running a bit quicker than it otherwise would because my job involves a lot of sitting. It also allows me to indulge one of my other passions - eating. These two passions do however account for me being too much in the butt and thigh department. This used to really bother me, but then the Kardashians and plus size models came along and now there is even a word for it. Thicc. And did you know that thicc thighs save lives? Yes, really. I foiled an attempted kidnapping once. No exaggeration, I shall find a spot to insert that story in due course. I’m also quite helpful when moving furniture.

It is interesting how quickly you lose your muscle mass if you stop using it. My bum is eroding. So are my thighs and I feel a lot softer than I’m used to being. All this leads me onto resistance training during chemotherapy. I intend to because there is research going on that suggests it helps.

Exercise under professional supervision - before, during, or after treatment - seems to substantially improve your odds. Between surgery and chemotherapy my body composition has improved - less fat as a percentage and more muscle. My physio, Megan, is formulating a programme for me so this can continue. I’ll keep you posted on how I go. Check this out: https://www.abc.net.au/catalyst/exercise-and-cancer/11016526

Pre treatment I‘ve only been allowed to walk because I am still healing some gnarly surgical scars, but it is fair to say I have loved my daily walks and now look forward to them. I try to go in the late afternoon and early evening. I usually walk straight up Scenic Drive (a steep uphill is hopefully halting some of the butt erosion). I try and time it so I walk downhill at dusk, that way I can see the city lights twinkling below me. It makes my heart sing.

For 5 weeks I have been searching for a spot to get a good shot of the city from up the hill. There was always a tree, a house or a power line in the way, but finally this week, I found the spot. If only I was a morning person, a sunrise would be spectacular.

Here are some other pictures from my walks for your viewing pleasure. Unfortunately my iPhone is incapable of a decent photo of the twinkling city lights.

I think one of the things I am struggling with the most is how my usually trustworthy and strong body has failed me. I hate being sick. I hate the fact that it is likely chemotherapy will make me physically vulnerable and weak and my illness obvious.

Which leads me back to Warrior Frana and the foiled kidnapping. It was the European summer of 1997. Princess Diana was in the final weeks of her life. I was in my 20s and backpacking around Italy with one of my best friend’s: the gorgeous, petite, blonde, Nic. We were somewhere in the outskirts of Florence. Nic’s bum was black and blue from all the pinching. My bum was fine. We were trying to work out what bus to catch. Nic was standing by the bus stop sign. I was sitting some distance away under some bushes, in the shade, consulting a guide book for the bus number. I did not see the car pull up next to Nicola and the man behind the wheel beckon her to him. I just noticed when she began shouting. The man had exited the vehicle, grabbed her and was dragging her to his car. I shot out of those bushes like a crazy woman. I hit him as hard as I could in the head with my day pack containing a full glass bottle of San Pellegrino water. I could see the fear and confusion in his eyes. He had no idea where I’d come from. He was a bit stunned, he let go of Nic and then grabbed me in a bear hug to stop me from hitting him in the head. I head butted him as hard as I could in the face, tried to knee him in the groan and then stamped on his feet. What blew my mind though was when he let go of me to run away, I ran after him. I wanted to kill him. To this day that episode surprises me. I had not done anything remotely like that before 1997, nor have I done so since…but I know I can do it…and that is a powerful thing for a woman to know.

I am not “as much” at the moment. Cancer treatment has temporarily taken some of my muchness. I know however that in October I can grow new hair, next week I can reacquaint myself with the squat rack and from this moment forth I can smile more.

To my dear changing room accoster, where ever you might be and whatever your name is, your boyfriend was not worth an altercation with me in a gym changing room and your subsequent ban from the premises. You should also know you are lucky I wounded you with words and didn’t knock you onto your “not enough” butt because I know I could have, if I’d wanted to.