

How To Look Flabulous

### Written by Lisa Laney

### Illustrated by Beth Ellen

### Published by Hovding Publishing

### How To Look Flabulous

### Author: Lisa Laney © 2013

Illustrations: Beth Ellen © 2013

All Rights Reserved

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright holder.

### ISBN: 978-0-473-23989-3

### P ublished by

### Hovding Publishing

### Smashwords Edition

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Dedication:

This book is dedicated to my Father Peter Laney for his inspiration in regards to writing after completing his first children's book and to my Mother, Lesley Laney whose words of encouragement kept me motivated to complete my first book.

###  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:

I wish to take the time out to acknowledge Gavin Cornford and Lance Stimpson who helped me achieve one of my finest moments in this book; the Tongario Crossing. Also thank you to Beth Ellen, for illustrating the book. And last but not least to my editor Caroline Martin, who has helped me to polish the contents written here and given me much needed advice and support along the way.

### Preface

It's Monday night, 9.15pm, and I am struggling to get to sleep (even though I am tired) because I have just been hit with the inspiration stick. I have just finished reading Short Fat Chick in Paris, by Kerre Woodham. It's an absolutely hilarious book and I relate to it in so many ways.

I thought at first I might actually be inspired to complete a marathon of my own – after all, E-cupped women should stick together and support one another (no pun intended).Then again, I've no real inclination to get hot, sweaty, red-faced and breathless in front of a bunch of strangers who probably know what they are doing and are fit, trim and athletic. No, this is not my area of passion. Rather, I would like to reignite an old dream that time (or lack of it) had slowly buried beneath the other shattered dreams of my youth. I want to write a book. I love reading them and have also enjoyed spending many hours whittling away at pieces of poetry, short stories and journals I have kept over the years. In the past, I have also attempted to write a novel (the title, double chocolate muffin, springs to mind – and no, it is not a story about food). I may one day complete that book but for now I have a new challenge in mind.

As I write this, my father has just published his first children's book, which he wrote in honour of his granddaughter (my niece). He has further plans to continue writing and publishing other children's books. He is my personal inspiration while Kerre is my professional inspiration. She has shown me that lack of time is no excuse. So now I have decided to start anew and write a personal account of my battle with the bulge. Will this ever get published, and will anyone ever read it? That I cannot answer, all I know is that I have to write it. I figure if women can relate to Kerre's story then maybe there are women out there who can relate to mine, too. I too am a short fat chick and I am going to tell my story. So here we go.

### Chapter 1

OK, so where do I start? 'Let's start at the very beginning, a very good place to start. When we read we begin with ABC, when we sing we begin with Doe Ray Me.' Sorry, I got a little distracted.

If I am going to be totally honest with you I need to put down my hard-to-admit-to statistics. Let's start with the easy ones. I am a 31-year-old single female who teaches high school students how to cook. I am only 5' 1' tall (154.9cm), which really cannot be classed as tall – more like vertically challenged. I have blonde hair and blue eyes, but my lips are dreadfully thin and almost non-existent when I smile. And then there is my weight. Are you ready for this? I am currently sitting on 80.5kgs. Ouch!

At my heaviest I was 82.4kgs. When I started Zumba I was surprised my heaving backside made it off the sofa and wiggled itself into some unsightly black leggings in an attempt to gyrate around the room. However, 14 weeks later I am still moving and grooving to the Latin American sounds.

At the start of my get-fit-or-die-trying regime I took several hideous photos of myself (man, I looked like a hippopotamus) as a way to help visually document the process. Then I took down my weight and measurements. The usual ones we women measure waist, hip and bust. They all screamed with one accord: 'I'm fat, I'm fat, you know it, oh yeah' (think Michael Jackson – tune to I'm Bad). After these depressing figures were recorded, I proceeded to start my exercise workout. Day in and day out I stuffed these flabby and bulging bits into my workout outfit and swayed to the rhythm.

I would glare at the perfectly slim figures telling me 'you can do it' and thought over and over to myself: Hump, easy for you to say, where are your dangly bits, aye? I don't see your cellulite wobbling like a bowlful of jelly across your legs and stomach and rear end. By the end of each workout I would flop to the floor exhausted, red-faced, sweating like a pig (ironic huh – I eat like one too) and unable to formulate words. My pathetic whimpers could be heard as I attempted to gather myself into a semblance of order and slither into a sitting position on the couch. After a few more moments I would drag my huge lump into the shower to cool down.

I decided I had to try and combat at least one jiggling problem first. How on earth was I to secure my ever growing, over-sized E-cup hooters? This was going to require some outside help. So with little or no dignity left, I went into a store to be fitted professionally. The woman was lovely and not at all condemning (which was refreshing). She quickly got me to try several different styles and sizes. After a near heart attack when she handed me a size F to try, I nearly cried with relief when instead she came back and said, 'Oh no, you are definitely not an F cup. Let's go back to the E, shall we?' Yes indeed, go back, go back! With much difficulty owing to the other problem we women suffer from (one breast larger than the other) we eventually found some everyday bras and some sports bras which should do the trick. $180 later, I walked out with five bras, and the promise of a slightly less bouncy and jiggly workout in the future. Oh, if only my other flabby bits could be managed this easily.

Only a select few of my friends and family even know I am doing Zumba. I figure the fewer people who know the better. Otherwise you get that awful moment where you have not seen them for a while and they look you up and down expectantly, only to get that disgusted look in their eyes which means, 'Well, you obviously haven't lost any weight, have you?' Before quickly verbalising something much more polite such as: 'you're looking well' (translation, you're still fat). Or 'what unusual weather we are having for this time of year' (I can't think of anything nice to say about your appearance so I will dodge the whole issue completely).

Over the past 14 weeks I have made progress – well, some. I originally lost almost 3kgs and was just starting to feel positive about the whole exercise thing when BANG, the weight slapped me in the face again (or more realistically around the gut). I had dropped to 79.7kgs and was doing the victory dance in the privacy of my own bedroom one day then the next, I was crying into a bag of chips. Well, Ok, so it was not actually overnight. I weigh and measure myself once a fortnight and record the figures. Every fortnight I had continued to slowly lose weight (although not inches). Then in just one fortnight all that hard work seemed to vanish. I was almost right back where I had started. How could this be? I was still exercising. My meals were mainly healthy. I was trying to cut down on the portion sizes. What had gone wrong? There were three main options.

I had built muscle (which weighs more than fat) and the weight gain was from my newly toned muscles. I looked at my calf muscles – this could actually be possible – there was some definite definition going on down there now. I looked at my arms – yeah, not so much happening there.

My next brilliant theory was that my thyroid glands were not co-operating. My family has a history of problems with the thyroid gland which controls the weight. My grandma, for example, ate extremely healthy meals, was fit and active, loved taking walks and doing her gardening etc. However, her weight was controlled by her thyroid gland that determined that her body weight should naturally be, overweight. There was very little she could do. I watched her try to lose the weight but it was hopeless. Maybe I was affected in the same way and the fault was in my genetic make-up. Sadly, I had the Doc test this theory out only to be proven wrong.

So the only other thing I could put it down to was my dietary habits. Up to this point I really had not sat down and devised a meal plan as such regards to what I should be eating. How much I should eat at each meal and how often I should eat. I had been trying to cut back and generally eat right, but I had not kept a food diary or been consistent. I needed to be held accountable. This was a pretty tall order because as a cooking teacher – I LOVE FOOD. Unfortunately it loves me a little too much also; it wraps itself around me and clings to me for dear life. I can just about name each roll; this one is McDonalds Chicken Deluxe, this is the chocolate truffles I got for my birthday, and this is my cheese on toast that I indulge in at least twice a week. I can even hear my rolls screaming at me as I type this. FEED ME. FEED ME. FEED ME.

I don't have a particularly big sweet tooth (besides a block of chocolate). I usually crave the savoury foods like chips and dip, cheese and crackers, burger and fries etc. If it's salty or fatty or both – load me up. I don't buy takeaways as a general rule (thankfully I live just out of town, so don't see the point in driving into town just to buy myself something unhealthy). But when I get the chance I don't hold back either.

For example, just recently I went to a baby shower. Nibbles were placed on the table. I politely waited until others had started to eat first. Then I filled up plate number one. I sat as near to the food table as possible while I demolished my little portions. Then I went back for round two. I was stuffing my face as I walked around. It went something like this: one for the plate, one for the mouth. Eventually I sat back down and ate plate number two. As if that was not enough, I got up a third time and loaded the plate up with corn chips, so I could return to the other room to commence game time and still have a snack plate nearby, disgusting. I see you shaking your heads and saying: 'Well, no wonder you put the weight back on if you're eating like that!' Then again, maybe some of you sympathise and you get it – you've been there yourself. I try to say NO but the food says YES.

My willpower is not good. Food is essential and it's not always easy selecting the right food. Especially if time is of the essence. Pre-packaged food, though terribly unhealthy, is easily accessible and there is no time wasted in preparation. Supermarkets cater to this. We have two-minute noodles and microwavable frozen meals, pasta snacks that take only minutes in the microwave and bags of chips ready to be devoured. We are an eat-on-the-run society now.

Then there is my job which leads to part of the problem. Firstly, I spend so long at school doing all the paperwork, the marking, writing reports, creating new assessments, upgrading the resources etc. that by the time I get home I do not feel like standing in the kitchen and cooking a meal. Secondly, I am a cooking teacher and have just spent the day (and every other day) teaching my students how to cook. Now I really DO NOT want to come home and think about cooking in any shape or form. So unless my wonderful flatmate has cooked, I tend to get a little lazy and use convenience foods instead. And if that was not enough, there's a third issue related to the job: the students usually want me to test their food and given them feedback and advice and so I am constantly eating on the job. My weight since starting this position has ballooned and only I can control it. Next year I will stand firm. I will not test-taste anything; they must use their peers in their class. At least, this is the plan, until one of my flabby bits cries for a little taste-test of the scrummy looking creamy pumpkin pasta they have just made.

Well, the good news is this. I have not given up yet on the battle of the bulge. And in the last few fortnights the scales have started to drop again and so have the inches. I am not quite back to the 79.7kgs yet and am light years away from my goal weight. But at least I have not thrown in the towel. I decided to break it down into smaller, more manageable chunks. For every 5kgs I lose I will buy myself a small charm to add to my Pandora lookalike bracelet. First prize (once I am finally down to my goal weight) will be to go on another cruise. I went on my first (and only) cruise, a few years ago now, around the South Pacific and thoroughly enjoyed it. I was also a lot smaller than I am now, of course. As tempting as it is to get on a cruise boat and go now, I would prefer to disembark at each stop as a tall, leggy and breath-taking beauty. However, my DNA has taken care of that; I have no chance of ever being tall and currently my weight fluctuates between fat and fatter. There is also nothing that is currently breath-taking about me. So instead let's embrace what I do have – and believe me, there is a lot of it to embrace.

Let's look at my current fitness programme. My exercise regime is going better than I thought it would. I usually HATE exercise and don't stick with it for very long. However, not only am I currently sticking to my programme but I actually (in general) quite enjoy it. Every part of my body aches when I have completed my daily portion, and I look a horrific sight to the naked eye (sunglasses should be worn if looking in my direction straight after a workout). But I keep on at it and seem to have slightly more energy than I did pre-Zumba. My eating habits, on the other hand, not so good. I try to cut down on portion sizes but always feel hungry. I try to eat healthy foods but somehow McD's finds its way into my mouth and tickles my taste buds then slides its fatty deliciousness down my throat and nestles itself into pit of my stomach (which sadly protrudes from my body imitating a spare tyre or two). Hmm, what to do . . . what to do? Living on celery sticks and tuna is not my ideal diet. I will attempt to document my progress – or lack of it – and write an honest account of a fat person fighting the bulge to break through and be thin. I will take up this challenge and exercise, eat sensibly and write my tale. After all, what do I have to lose except 20kgs?

### Chapter 2

Well, I have just completed The Sculpt and tone routine (45 minutes) and the flat abs (18 minutes). I can still feel the icy sweat trickling across one shoulder and zigzagging its way down to the small of my back. I'm about to dive into a cool shower. It was a grilling workout today. In the past, when I have combined two workouts, it has been the 20-minute express and the flat abs. Total workout time, 38 minutes. So this was both exhausting and exhilarating at the same time. On one hand, parts of my body are screaming out 'enough is enough already – I need a break', while other parts are saying 'let's go, it's time to party'. Exercise really does give you more energy and changes your mood. When I first got home, the thought of doing Zumba was almost too much. I wanted to lie down until the thought went away. I had no energy and had been yawning my head off for hours. I was ready for a nana nap, not bouncy up and down energetically. But I knew that my flab was not going to dream itself away (I wish). So I put on the DVD and Zumba'd my little heart away. I am three kilos away from losing the first five and treating myself to a new charm for my bracelet. Think 'thin' thoughts. I once read that the power of the mind can help you overcome a weight problem. You have to imagine yourself looking thin and fabulous and keep this in your mind constantly so your body will fall into line. I gaze into the mirror: I am thin and beautiful. I am thin and beautiful. I am thin and beautiful. A short fat hag looks back at me and laughs, 'not a chance sister'. Oh well, maybe I will start working on the positive affirmations tomorrow.

Sometimes I can be deluded into thinking I look really good in an outfit, slim even. Then someone shows up with a camera and the results are truly eye-opening. Oh no, I look fat and podgy. How did I leave the house in that? Why did no one tell me? How can I destroy the photographic evidence? Often that particular outfit never gets worn again. Now, on the subject of clothes . . .

RETAIL THERAPY

Let me tell you a little bit about a thing close to my heart called retail therapy. I have recently been on one of the best bargain-shopping sprees ever! Let me take you back to the beginning when I first heard about it. It was late in the evening and I was in my comfy PJs about to snuggle under the covers, when my flatmate mentioned casually that there was going to be an Ezibuy sale on tomorrow. Everything $2! A workmate of ours was going to pick us both up in the morning and take us down, if we were interested. The catch, pick-up time was 6.45am. I stood there with that knowing smile slowly creeping across my face and said, 'Count me in.' Now, if she had said to me we were getting up early to complete a group exercise routine at the gym – well, let's just say I would have politely declined the offer and slept through until 7am (the standard get-out-of-bed time). However, this slightly early morning rise was a chance to shop before I had even stepped foot into work. So I trundled off to bed and literally went to sleep dreaming about bargain hunting. I dreamt I couldn't get my clothes on fast enough and our ride was threatening to leave without me if I didn't get sorted NOW. I also dreamt about the cheese and onion toasties I would prepare in advanced for lunch at work later that day. I dreamt that instead of leaving at 6.45am, we left at 5.45am to make sure we were there to get the best of the bargains. I was so amped up about our early morning shopping trip I woke at 5.30am and couldn't get back to sleep because of the nervous, anticipatory twitch in my stomach of a thousand butterflies just waiting to be let loose on a bunch of clothes like bees swarming towards flowers.

Finally the moment arrived. I was dressed and ready to buy. Our ride arrived, made another stop-off to pick up two more eager beavers, and away we went. There were five of us. My flatmate had never been to anything like this before. The rest of us were old hands at this type of shopping so we quickly filled her in. You grab a big box and riffle through everything. Anything you like, chuck it in. Check out sizes later. You do not have time to casually flick through garments. It's a war zone in there. Women push and shove and get very verbal if they think a bargain will pass them by. Men come to protect their women as they scavenge through the mountain of clothes. It's first in, first served.

We continued to throw around positive affirmations about the types of bargains we would come back with. Upon arrival we saw just how nasty things could potentially get. There were cars and women everywhere. Cars were parked halfway down the street. Bewildered construction workers stood on their site and watched with curious expressions as hordes of women swept past them in a bid to get their hands on juicy garments. It was only 7am. We took a brief moment and sent up a prayer to heaven: 'Please God, help us to get some good bargains today.' Then we were off. To be honest, I felt selfish asking God for bargains when people are living on the street with only the clothes on their backs to keep them warm. I looked around me and noticed women literally running towards the warehouse. Each one of us grabbed a big box and headed inside.

It was bedlam. Women, children, the odd man and boxes were everywhere. Behind all of this, were the bargain tables piled high with clothes. Oddly enough, the first thing that drew my attention was actually the table of lamps. I saw a gorgeous lamp sitting there and thought, now if only it came in a matching pair. Then low and behold there was the second one. I grabbed them both and secured them in my box. They were perfect. They would match my room nicely – almost the same colour as my bedspread. Excellent! Next, I gravitated towards the shoe table. I saw a lovely pair of tan-coloured shoes with a wedge heel. I picked up a few pairs. Not in my size. 'Here is a size five,' said my flatmate. And into the box they went. Yes, I am a painfully small-footed person. Not often do I find shoes in my size. Most women's shoes seem to start at six and go up from there. So finding a size five for only $2 was a near miracle. I mean, what are the chances? I turned and looked towards the clothes. The people were three to four rows thick in some places. How was I going to fight my way in there to get to a table?

I spied a couple of ex-students. Excellent, I would go and squeeze in with them. Soon I was elbow-deep in garments, pulling out tops and pants galore in search of anything that would suit me. I had the box half-filled when I decided to try a different table. Moving around the overcrowded room with a huge box, while trying to dodge other shoppers was intense. It was like dodgem cars without the cars. Eventually I found myself standing behind a student who would pull out handfuls of clothing for me and my flatmate to go through. We would briefly inspect the item. The main things we were looking for were colour, style and size. If it was even a slight possibility it went into the box. I was grappling with the clothes on the ground and had my purse perched on my shoulder, but every time I bent down to pick up another item of clothing it would fly off my shoulder and take out anyone in the near vicinity. I put my purse on the ground and continued sorting. The reject pile felt quite heavy as I passed it back to be placed on the table again, but I thought nothing of it. I started on the next pile of offered clothes. Suddenly I heard a cry from the table and a complete stranger yelled, 'Is this anybody's handbag?' I knew straight away it must be mine. I looked up. Sure enough, a woman stood with my bright pink handbag dangling from her fingertips. My flatmate recognised it straight away and grabbed it for me before I could speak. I was so shocked to see it, and to realise what I had done, I could not utter a sound. I felt the slow humiliating flush spread across my cheeks as I stammered, 'Thanks, I must have chucked it out with the rejects. Oops!'

Oops indeed. What a costly venture that could have been. Not only could I not have paid for the clothes, I would have had to cancel all my credit cards and been charged $5 per card by the bank to reissue them, not to mention my two cell-phones were in my purse along with my brand new iPod and my digital camera. Let's face it, basically my whole life, and I had just casually chucked it away. Well, that was a wake-up call. I was definitely going to be more careful. By this time Janita and I had pretty much filled two boxes. I decided on another spot and shuffled in enough to reach my arm in and out of the small crevice that opened up between two women. I ducked in and out and pulled different items towards me. Yes, no and maybe (which at this stage of the game meant yes).

After an hour of fighting the masses we ducked into a clearing to sort through the boxes. We quickly tried on a variety of tops but we kept getting the hurry-on by a woman yapping something to this effect: 'Hurry up, move along, move along. Buy now or the clothes get tossed back, stop holding people up. There are too many people, too many boxes. This is a fire hazard.' No kidding, it was a fire hazard; you couldn't move for the people and boxes. If there was a fire we would all be in serious trouble. Not to mention how flammable most of the clothes were. Ah, what a waste that would be.

But back to the issue at hand; we were getting hustled and bustled by this very agitated woman. So we stopped trying on the clothes and just held them up against ourselves and gave them a rapid yes or no that held a certain note of finality about it. By time we were lined up to pay we were down to one shared box and my two lamps. As we inched closer and closer to the till, Janita dived back into the fray for one last dig around the bargains. She came back 10 minutes later with another armload of clothes which she heaved into our already overflowing box. She turned to me grinning and said, 'I've found the buy of the season.' She then held up the skirt I had been drooling over for two weeks in the latest Ezibuy catalogue. It was new season stock, $60 in store, yet here it was amongst the $2 bargains. I gaped at it. 'It's in your size,' she said proudly. I was so ecstatic I was nearly doing cartwheels, except there was not enough room for even a little old field mouse to do a cartwheel. Anyway, I didn't think I would actually be able to launch my hefty body off the ground to effectively achieve one. At best I'd be replicating a huge Zorb and knocking down everyone in the vicinity. A Zorb, for those of you who don't know, is a huge plastic ball, into which a person crawls through a tiny opening, straps them self in and then basically rolls down a hill at top speed. I could be the giant Zorb – I am almost sure of it.

By this time we had reached the counter and it was time to pay. It turned out that not everything was $2. Knitwear and shoes were $5 and jackets were $10. Not sure what we paid for the two packets of queen-sized flannelette sheets. As for my beautiful matching lamps, they were $15 each, still, a good buy. All up we spent a small fortune. Let me tell you, the euphoric high from that shopping spree lasted all day. And the best part was all of the clothes fitted and looked fabulous, apart from one top which was too baggy. Yes, too baggy – I love it! The best thing about the sale was the huge range of clothes and sizes. There was something to suit everyone. So can I look flabtastic? You bet I can.

Footnote: I had a student tell me today that she had never guessed I had a weight problem by looking at me. She thinks I dress well and look great. What a way to make a girl feel pretty. I was pretty stoked by the comment. In case you are wondering, she was at the Ezibuy sale and we were talking about dress sizes and how I wished I was a size 12 again. That's how the comment came about. She is such a sweetie. I love teaching teenagers, I really do.

### Chapter 3

'Food glorious food,' surprise, surprise, I am almost always hungry. Now, how can I be good and have a healthy dinner tonight? Maybe I could make a salad with the ingredients fresh out of my garden. And I could open a tin of salmon and have a baked potato (sour cream not included – but perhaps a dollop of butter) and a boiled egg. Yeah, that actually sounds pretty good to me. It covers my carbohydrates' portion, my protein and my serve of vegetables. There is nothing unhealthy about the meal and it is quick to prepare. I usually do not keep ice cream in the house so dessert is not an option, although my body is currently craving chocolate. Man, am I glad I have already removed those temptations. Of course, my form of removal was to over-indulge myself and finish off every last morsel of chocolate in the house. Still, mission accomplished. No more chocolate.

My other weakness, in the food department, is my fondness for the energy drink known only by a single letter, V. Ah, when I think about that green sleek bottle and imagine the sound of the bubbles hissing as I loosen the lid, I can almost smell the sweet, potent aroma and taste the tang as the smooth liquid laps at my tongue and dances through my system, giving me the much needed energy boost to fulfil my wildest dreams. Well, maybe not my wildest dreams (here I am usually exotically beautiful and in the arms of a gorgeous tanned and buffed young gentleman with an alluring accent, who is about to whisk me off to sun-drenched beaches where I can sip on a cool drink, complete with a little umbrella, and bask in the beauty of it all). Back to reality, I have decided to limit myself to only one V a week as it is really not good for me – or anyone else for that matter.

I also love the golden arches – McDonald's. This I limit to once a month – well, OK, maybe more like once a fortnight. Milkshakes, fries, burgers, ice cream sundaes – what more can I say? Do I go and choose one of their Weight Watchers' approved meals? No. Who goes to McD's to be healthy, anyway? McDonald's knows how to draw you in at a young age. I mean, they have Ronald McDonald, the clown, as their mascot and the restaurant comes with a built-in playground for kids and they offer the Happy Meal range with a toy. They do special birthday parties for kids just to top it all off. What chance does the nation have? If we take our kids there, we could be considered bad parents who are not looking after their nutritional needs. If we ban them from McDonald's, then we are too tough and could be considered neglectful of their emotional/social needs, especially if all their friends are going there. OK, so everything in moderation you say. Yes, but once you've introduced them to McDonald's it is a downward cycle. Or was that just me? It is possible there are people out there in this world who have a lot more self-control than I do. Yeah, all right, most people have more self-control than I do.

Still, the important factor is to know how to dress to cover up these little food mishaps. I have been told I always dress nicely. I guess that means I have learnt how to cover up these rolls so as to look acceptable in society. I did hear once (this may have been Trinny and Susanna) that you should only show a little bit of skin at a time. Boobs or legs – not both! OK, let's look at this from my perspective. I have short, stocky, glow-in-the-dark white legs. Sexy? Yeah right! It could be the next big Tui ad campaign but that's about it. Note to self: keep legs covered. I have in the past watched all these little teeny-boppers showing off their midriffs, often accompanied with a belly piercing. I look down and notice my mid has drifted so far out it almost reaches Australia. So I think I will keep my middle safely hidden from view also. But, ah, the boobs, I could wear clothing to accentuate these puppies but I don't think they need any help getting noticed. In fact, I would much rather keep them discreetly hidden along with the rest. I have heard the saying: 'If you've got it, flaunt it'. But as I am a teacher in front of a bunch of teenagers who are greatly influenced by what they see, hear and experience, I would rather not encourage the girls to flash themselves in society or set up expectations for the boys whereby that is what they come to expect from all women. Plus, I could probably reduce the unsuspecting students to years of grief counselling after too much of an eyeful and they would be scarred for life. It's just not worth the risk.

During winter it is much easier keeping my rolls and boobs under wraps – literally. I am usually covered from head to toe in layers of warm clothing. Although these layers can at times produce a magnificent likeness to the abominable snowman. Imagine me waddling towards school on a bitterly cold winter's day, my breath almost freezing as it is exhaled from my warm body – you get the picture? In summer I have the issue of keeping my cleavage at an acceptable PG rating. The style is often the plunging neckline. This does not work for me; I usually have to wear a singlet with a high lacy piece across the top underneath the low-cut blouse to cover up the mountain peaks. This means I am wearing two tops in the height of summer and sweltering in the heat, and sweat beads up under the arms causing unsightly sweat marks – gross! There is also the problem of constantly having to hoist up the lacy singlet top as it lazily slides down my ample bosom. Oh, the joys of dressing for success as a plus-sized woman. It is all about how to look totally flabulicious in a respectable manner.

I have recently discovered the joy of buying at plus-sized stores. Initially I was aghast at having to buy clothes there. However, Glasson's and Pagani are just not going to cut it – they are for teeny tiny girls and not curvaceous overweight women. But once I got over my fear I discovered a bliss in-store I could never have imagined. As soon as I step into these stores I am instantly transported into the wonderful realm of size SMALL! Yes, you heard right, folks. In these stores I am an S (and in one store recently I fitted XS – I was over the moon). I have not been small, let alone extra small, since I left high school all those many years ago. Since then it has been an uphill battle. I now love visiting these retail outlets. In fact, the other day I tried on an XS dress with some fabulous colours in it and it was too BIG! It almost looked like a tent on me. How cool is that? I did find a great skirt and top – both XS – and bought them instantly. They really look quite good on me and very professional for school, maybe too good for school, especially when we are cooking, as the floured look never compliments an outfit.

Still on the topic of fashion, I absolutely love my new bargain wedge heels. Though, I am not sure my toes would agree. The line: 'Sandy, Sandy, beauty is pain' springs to mind. If you do not recognise that line – shame on you. It is from my all-time favourite movie, Grease. Oh how I wanted to be Sandy Dee. But back to that line, some day's beauty really is pain. I am still breaking in my new heels and believe me this is no easy feat (excuse the pun). They look fabulous on and match my new outfit perfectly. However, my toes are extremely pinched. I wonder whether numbness will eventually kick in and I won't notice the pain anymore. But every time I question whether or not to wear them, fashion overcomes sense. I love the compliments I receive when I do wear them out. It is such a pity my toes do not appreciate those compliments as much as my ego does. There are some days where I take them off and look down at the red and angry battle scars on my poor abused feet. I usually wiggle my toes around for a moment of blissful freedom before having to stuff them back into the shoes. Oh, the price we pay for beauty.

Talking about the price we pay for beauty, I recently went and indulged in a facial treatment at my favourite place, Isobel's Day Spa. I was getting a skin analysis done, followed by a mini-facial using the company's recommended products. The said company is a separate organisation to the spa and is called Thalgo. The product, I discovered with surprise, was actually something I could use. I have sensitive skin and cannot use many of the standard things women use without first reading the ingredients' labels very carefully. Shampoos, conditioners, body washes, soaps, washing powder, deodorants, skin-care preparations. You name it; I have to check it out first. There are only about two brands of shampoo and conditioner I can switch between. The same can be said for my body wash. I was therefore delighted I could use this product. What a good start. I was ecstatic to find out my skin was in good condition with great elasticity. It was perhaps a little dehydrated but a good moisturizer would help that, awesome. Next up, the facial, I love nothing more than to have someone give me a massage. One of my five love languages is physical touch, another is words of affirmation. What bliss to lie there and be pampered for 20 minutes? The products felt good on my skin and the delicate chords of piano music in the background nearly put me to sleep. I decided to go ahead and buy the moisturizer; by so doing I'd get my mini-facial and consultation free. Hooray, couldn't argue with that. That joy was quickly stolen from me and replaced by utter fear and disbelief as they scanned the moisturizer and asked for $106. I smiled politely while silently choking on my tongue and paid the money. When I got home I took the container out of the box and discovered how misleading the packaging was. The little pottle of cream was even smaller than I'd thought. It was cute and decorative but not substantial. Man, did they see me coming. I have decided to use this cream very sparingly.

Back to Isobel's again – I LOVE the neck, back and shoulder massages I get there. During the first half of the year I get massages done on a fortnightly basis. The 45-minute treatment is bliss. The girls in there are all really lovely. I always book the same person; she is just fantastic and knows exactly what pressure I prefer. I have often had fleeting thoughts while on the table about the experience she is having. While I lie there face down, indulging in the feel of these experienced hands pushing and kneading in just the right spots and listening to the peaceful sounds of the music faintly playing in the background, my poor masseuse is having a very different experience. She has to deal with the white blimp on the table. I have often wondered if my back looks and feels flabby and squishy. The treatment is always very professional but it is also very personal. My masseuse probably knows whether I am putting on weight or losing it every time she gives me a treatment. I wonder what goes through their minds. I suppose it is just a job for them and they are professionals and we, the clients, probably worry about it more than they do. Still, I do feel reassured that it all occurs within a darkened room – even I don't like being confronted with my own fleshy bits in the stark light of day.

One of the most amazing pamper days I have ever had was up in Rotorua during the January summer holidays. My friend, Faith and I had visited the Buried Village in the morning and had leisurely wandered around the grounds with the sun beating down on our backs, soaking up the history of the Mt Tarawera volcanic eruption. We treated ourselves to lunch at the café and then decided to go to Hell's Gate – the thermal mud pool attraction. When we got there we discovered we could do a package deal; walk around the different mud pools (I took photos) then enjoy a mud bath followed by a soak in the sulphur hot pool. Yes please – I was definitely in for that.

It was an interesting experience sitting there in the mud pool. The water was quite cool – I had expected it to be warmer. The mud wasn't as thick as I had expected. You had to scrape it up with your fingers if you wanted to apply it like a thick paste on your skin. I wasn't too thrilled when I pulled up a long strand of someone's hair – yuck! But I suppose you cannot clean out a mud pool in the same way you clean out a public pool. The worse part of the whole experience was the icy shower afterwards. I shivered and gasped and squealed as I ducked various body parts in and out of the water. You had to rinse off every last vestige of mud before towelling yourself dry. Especially as the towels were pure white. I wrapped myself in the fluffy towel and watched Faith do the same strange water dance.

Next up was the sulphur pool. Yes! We walked into the yellow water and instantly my legs started tingling. It was like someone was attacking me with a thousand pins all at once. It was odd but not really unpleasant. I did take this moment, though, to scare my dear friend by saying: 'Oh, by the way, I am allergic to sulphur drugs. I'm actually anaphylactic. I stop breathing if I take them. As this is not exactly sulphur drugs, I am sure I will be fine but if my lips turn blue – get help immediately.' I thought Faith was going to faint with horror. 'You are kidding me, right?' 'No,' I replied casually, 'Oh, my gosh, what if something happens to you?' 'Just call an ambulance. But, honestly, I am sure I will be fine.' She gave me a quizzical look, but we soon found some little niches to settle into and we spent the next two and a half hours soaking in the pungent yellow water. Obviously I survived to tell the tale.

There was an interesting moment I have neglected to tell you about. While I was happily floating along a young guy (not bad looking, may I add) got into the pool and gave me a warm smile. Huh, is he looking at me? I smiled back then put my head back and closed my eyes. Suddenly he said something. I honestly have no idea what he said but for some reason I responded, 'You can help yourself to some cool water. They have a water cooler just inside the door over there.' He smiled and said, 'Thanks. Does anyone else want one?' He looked around the pool. Most people shook their heads or ignored him. I smiled and said, 'Sure, thanks,' though I had already finished my third glass by this time. He jumped out of the pool and took a good few minutes to return. 'Here you go.' Again I merely smiled and said, 'Thank you.' He waded over to the other side of the pool again and stayed there for a minute or two before returning to my side and settling down not far from me. We struck up a conversation and it turned out he was from Sydney. He worked in retail – shoes, to be exact. He was in New Zealand on holiday. He told me he had met some lovely New Zealanders and that he thought our country was beautiful. Naturally I agreed with him. I think we have one of the most beautiful countries in the world. Not that I have travelled further than the South Pacific, but still . . . He seemed like a genuinely nice guy. I noticed that Faith looked over subtly to check I was OK then went back to soaking. We probably only chatted for 10 or 15 minutes before he was called away. His shuttle bus was leaving and if he missed it the next one was an hour away.

I finally decided once he'd left it would be safe to drink the glass of water. As he'd handed it to me I'd suddenly had a rather chilling thought. What if he had spiked it? After all, he had taken a long time to come back with two glasses of water. I know it was a ridiculous thought but I have had a drink spiked in the past and I am a little more wary now. Anyway, you will be pleased to know the water was fine. What struck me most about this little scenario was – why me? For starters, I was wearing these hideous blue hired togs. (We had not realised that Hell's Gate had pools, you see). So there I was sitting in that pool like a hippo, in togs that did nothing to flatter my figure. Yet of all the people there he chose me to speak to. Wonders will never cease. I guess there is still hope for a singleton in her 30s. All in all, it was a pretty awesome afternoon and I would have been happy to have stayed there all night, but eventually my wrinkled prune of a body decided it needed some nourishment. We proceeded to get out and then the next decision, of course, was – what we were going to eat for dinner. I think we quite possibly had Burger Fuel that night.

### Chapter 4

I had a dream the other night. Actually, on a side note, I have strange dreams on a regular basis. Anyway, this dream was my subconscious mind bringing forth a very real concern. I had walked into the orthopaedic clinic at the hospital and sat down to await the results of my MRI scan. I was quickly told that unfortunately there was nothing they could do for me. The disease would get progressively worse and I would end up in a wheelchair for the rest of my life. No time frame was given and I was left feeling absolutely devastated. How would I cope being confined to a wheelchair? I realise that people do it every day all around the world and you soon learn to adjust. But man, it still sucked. I would never dance again. I would be unable to teach my class (simply because it is upstairs with no wheelchair access and with it being the cooking room, it is a lot harder to reallocate me another room). I would need to modify my house. And I was sure it would make it harder to find a future husband. Imagine telling someone: 'Oh, I am fine now but in a few years I will be confined to a wheelchair for the rest of my life.' That could potentially change a guy's mind. Of course, if it did, he would not be worth having in the first place. Then there was the dream of being able to walk down the aisle at my wedding. That too was slowly slipping away. Suddenly I woke up.

Thank goodness it was all just a dream. Now just to explain here; I have a knee condition which has been ongoing for years, but this year it has become progressively worse. My knees ache almost all the time. Walking some days is really painful. Getting up and down stairs is horrendous. Kneeling is not an option. If I sit for too long my knees go stiff and I can barely get up and move around. There are times when my knees lock or just give out completely.

I recall one occasion at school; we had just had a school assembly which went on for longer than normal (one and a half hours). I knew I would have problems when I got up. Sure enough, my knees where extremely stiff and sore. I tried to hobble out as quickly as I could before all the students could witness my humiliation. As I headed down the three steps at our chapel entrance, my right knee suddenly gave out and I started to feel my body crumple beneath me. A hand swooped down from nowhere and hooked my right arm, hauling me back to my feet before I plummeted to the ground in an unsightly heap. I turned to look at my saviour. It was a Year 13 student. She looked at me concerned and said, 'Miss, are you all right?' I gazed around at other staff and students who had witnessed the event or were watching with curious eyes as to why I was being guided out by a student. 'It's just my knees playing up. I will be fine shortly,' I assured my rescuer. 'Well, I will help you to the office, Miss.' I smiled at her and thanked her profusely. A fellow colleague came up to me and asked what was happening. I quickly filled her in and explained that I had been to a specialist and had since had X-rays, a blood test and an MRI scan to find out the cause. 'Well, I hope they find out what is wrong, Lisa, because this is terrible,' she said. I nodded, 'Yeah, it is painful and humiliating. And I'm only 31 – it just doesn't seem right.'

Let me go back even further for you. At the age of five I was diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis. I struggled with it every winter as a child and also had problems on and off throughout my teens. After I left high school my knees no longer gave me any bother. It was an awesome sense of freedom for me, now freed from such crippling pain every winter. Then all of a sudden, about two or three years ago, the pain returned. It was not perhaps quite the same sensation but certainly in the same place. I had had approximately 10 years reprieve and now it was back with a vengeance.

This year has been my worst year. It has played up pretty much non-stop regardless of the weather, though the nastier the weather the worse the pain. I finally decided to seek medical help. My doctor immediately referred me to the orthopaedic specialist up at the hospital. He initially X-rayed my knees and could find nothing. Then he did a blood test to rule out a recurrence of the arthritis. Next, he X-rayed my spine to see if something there was affecting my posture and my knees; this too seemed clear. At the same time he decided on an MRI.

For those of you who have not endured an MRI it is not entirely pleasant, albeit pain-free. You are given industrial earmuffs and then slowly propelled forward into this tiny tunnel (if you were claustrophobic then this would be terrifying). Once they turn the machine on it gets really noisy – I can only imagine what it would be like without the earmuffs on. The hardest thing is staying absolutely still. If you even need to sneeze you must press the bell and tell them so they can turn the machine off until you are done. Naturally, my nose was itchy purely because I could not scratch it. The whole procedure only took about 30 minutes and I was free to go. I waited about five weeks for the follow-up appointment at the orthopaedic clinic and tried not to think too much about the possible results.

My two biggest fears were that they would either find nothing at all wrong and I would feel like I was being told it was all in my head. Or secondly, there was something wrong but there was nothing they could do about it and I would have to live like this for the rest of my life, with the probability of it getting worse. So with nerves bundled up as tight as an overwound spring, I entered the clinic with trepidation in my heart and a support person by my side. Mum had come with me in case the news was not good.

The doctor came in and said, 'Well, the good news is the MRI scan shows no evidence of . . .'

My heart stopped and I thought to myself, he is going to tell me the MRI scan came back clear. That is not good news, I need to find out what is happening and rectify the situation. He continued, 'The good news is the MRI scan shows no evidence of a torn cartilage. It does, however, show evidence of worn cartilage under both kneecaps where you are experiencing the pain. There is also tendon damage in each knee. This will not require surgery but I will organise some physiotherapy through the hospital. Recovery will be a long and painful process as this degeneration has been going on for years. But hopefully physiotherapy will help to strengthen your knees and surrounding muscles.'

Phew, this was good news. No dreaded wheelchair for me – at least not through this. And something could be done about the pain. He arranged to see me in two months' time and see what progress I was making with the physio. It was a surreal moment. Wow, I felt relieved. But at the same time, I almost wished I needed surgery as that would be a quick fix as opposed to hours, days, weeks and possibly months of painful physio that now awaited me. But at least we now knew what the problem was.

I still intend to keep doing my Zumba. It is true that there are days when it is hard. Sometimes my knee gives out on a particular movement and I hop around for a few seconds then get my bearings and continue. But I figure the more weight I can get off my knees the better for them. I ran this past the specialist and he agreed with me. So despite the discomfort I will continue unless I am told otherwise. Let's hope it aids me rather than impedes me.

I would like to take the time now to talk about a friend and colleague who has inspired me immensely. She is such an amazing young woman, with a strong connection to God. Last year she was hit with terrible news. She was diagnosed with MS (multiple sclerosis). She went from being fine one day to being wheelchair-bound within a matter of months.

The first few signs were her lack of balance, eyes not focussing clearly, loss of strength and control in her hands and arms. We were amazed at how rapidly she declined. She was unable to read, write, or even type. She was using a walker one day then was getting a ramp fitted to her home to provide her with wheelchair access the next. She had to temporarily put aside her teaching, which was hard for her to do. All the staff and students felt her absence and everyone was praying for her. It was so hard to see her physically slide down further each day. Yet through this she remained fairly positive. I know she had her moments, because we occasionally talked about the highs and lows of her illness. There were days where she felt depressed because her case seemed so hopeless, and then a friend would come around and pick her back up and make her smile again. Her family was so supportive and her church family organised food rosters as she could no longer cook for herself.

Her MS was so extreme the medical professionals decided to treat her with a course of chemotherapy to try and combat it and give her back some form of normalcy. She started to lose her hair and there were days when I can only guess how hard it was for her. Yet she pushed on through and now she is walking around totally unaided. She looks great and has regained control over her body. She still has bad days, where one side will go numb, or her eyes play up (blurriness), but she has never let go of her faith. She knows God will use her and this experience as a way to show his glory.

I know that through her example, I truly could have faced anything God had put before me, but I am also so grateful I don't have to because I am not sure I could have done it with as much grace as my American friend did. I wish to acknowledge her for showing me how to stay positive against all odds and to always thank God for the many blessings we receive even if they are not always so obvious to us.

I have now had two physiotherapy consultations. I have been told it is definitely a degenerative condition in my tendons and cartilage. The physio will help to strengthen my knees and legs and should be able to slow down the deterioration. It cannot be reversed or prevented in anyway but it can be delayed, and anything I can do to keep the 'big bad wolf' from the door for many years to come I will actively engage in. Some of the exercises are challenging but hopefully will help me. Even the physiotherapist was surprised when she heard how my knees crack and make rather loud grinding noises. She was actually worried about me engaging in the activities and winced every time she heard my knees. I reassured her that this noise was quite normal; I live with it daily. So now I include my physio exercises with my daily Zumba to help strengthen my knees.

### Chapter 5

I mentioned earlier about my two foremost love languages being physical touch and words of affirmation. I have recently discovered my reason for enjoying gift-giving so much. Although I do enjoy receiving gifts it is certainly not my primary love language: it only rates as four on a scale of five. On the other hand, giving gifts feeds into my two primary love languages. When you have picked out the right present for someone and their eyes light up with joy, they usually do two things: firstly they thank you and tell you how wonderful the present is and then they jump up and offer you a hug as well. Ta-da! My love languages have just been fulfilled. I walk away feeling great.

I put a lot of time and effort into choosing just the right gift for each person. I don't just buy any old thing to fulfil the requirements of gift-giving. This is why I absolutely LOVE Christmas, even though it is very commercial and expensive. I recently gave one of my workmates their secret Santa present. They quickly identified me as the present-giver and said, 'Lisa, you have restored my faith in secret Santa's. This is the best present ever.' I was beaming and this warm glow settled in my heart. I love bringing joy to others but now I realise it in turn feeds my own joy.

Today is Christmas Eve and all the presents are wrapped and waiting for tomorrow. I am on a high – I just can't wait until Christmas morning when I can spend the day with my family and watch them open up their presents. Throughout the day it will only be Mum, Aunty Sheryl and me. Aunty Sheryl is making a champagne breakfast then we will just spend the rest of the day relaxing. Dad is at work but will be home in the evening when we will have a family BBQ. My brother, his partner and their two girls (my precious nieces) will join us for tea. We will all do the family present thing and I am so looking forward to Savanna opening up her present. She is old enough to understand Christmas, whereas Amelia-Rose is only 10 months old and although she will enjoy ripping the paper it will not mean as much for her this year. However, next year may be very different for her.

It will be hard this Christmas as it is the first one without Grandad. He died eight months ago. I have already heard his favourite Christmas song: I cried a little as I sang it and pictured him sitting on the couch singing along to it and laughing all the way through. He loved Grandma got run over by a reindeer. It always brought him so much joy to hear the song and I will always think of him every time I hear it.

SUMMER HOLIDAYS

I love the six weeks off that we fellow teachers have in December/January. Mum and I have already been down in Wellington enjoying three days with family. I took my Zumba with me and proceeded to tell my extended whanau about my exercise programme and how much weight I'd lost. By this stage I have lost just over 3kgs.

Everyone was pretty excited for me and Zumba was immediately looked up on Trade-me to see if the DVD could be purchased for the household. My uncle's wife went to the fridge and pulled out three 500g packets of margarine, told me to double what she was holding and that was how much weight I had lost. When I looked at it I was quite amazed. It was more substantial than I had visualised. I even held the margarine, felt its heaviness and knew that twice that weight had been removed from my body.

She let me in on a little secret (which I can share here). While she was losing weight she used to stack blocks of margarine in a corner of her room to track her progress. This helped to motivate her and remind her no matter how far she had to go she could look at what she had accomplished so far. I really like this idea and am considering using the same technique for myself.

I know the holiday period will be hard. I often succumb to junk food temptations and it is easy to slack off on the exercise and simply become a blob. So far I have stuck to my Zumba programme daily, even getting up early before physiotherapy appointments to fit it in. Saturday is the only day I do not Zumba – because it is the Sabbath. With any luck (and a lot of hard work) I will have made a noticeable dent in my body shape and weight by the time I return to school. It is always so refreshing when someone looks at you and says, 'Wow, you look like you have lost weight. What is your secret?' And they genuinely mean it. Any time I am feeling down and start thinking it is taking too long, or I see the scales creep up a little, someone makes a comment at the right time and renews my commitment to keep it up.

I have now stuck to the programme for 20 weeks (one week shy of five months). I really thought I would have lost 5ks by this time and am slightly disappointed this has not happened. I have lost centimetres though, and I do look slightly flatter in the stomach region. I also think I have gained muscle which may explain some of the slight increases in weight from time to time. I know I have to keep on going despite the occasional lows, because it is always harder to lose the weight than it is to put it on. Just think how great the accomplishment will be when I get to my goal weight.

I have tentatively set a goal weight at 60kgs. One person told me not to dream because it probably would not happen. She said that often, as we get older, we need more fat on our bodies and we just need to accept it and not think too idealistically. Yes, maybe this is true but that doesn't mean I should not strive for my goal. Ideally, I would like to get down to 57kgs because that is actually the top end of the healthy weight range for my height and age. I should be (according to the experts) between 53kgs and 57kgs. This seems to me to be too far-fetched, which is why I will be happy if I can get to 60kgs. How long this will take me I am not sure, but as it has taken almost five months to lose 3kgs I think the road ahead is long and windy.

I would love to consult a nutritionist. I do know what to eat and what to avoid, yet a food plan and having someone to be accountable to in the area of my diet would be a huge advantage. In Kerre Woodham's book, Gaza, her personal trainer, says that 70 per cent of weight loss is food-related while only 30 per cent is exercise. This was actually a little disappointing as I have finally got the exercise thing right, but not the food. The struggle is still on. If I could combine both I am sure the weight would come off faster.

Losing the weight and keeping it off are two different things. I do not want to rush the weight off and look fabulous for a few months, then start to put it all back on again. I can and will beat this. I owe it to God, who is surely the one who has given me the motivation to stick it out so far, as normally I am a quitter in the area of physical exercise and overcoming self-image emotional challenges. The mirror has not been a close friend of mine and we are still on rather shaky ground together. I hope one day to generally appreciate my reflection, no matter what it reveals.

### Chapter 6

Well, there are now only two weeks left of the school holidays. How quickly time does fly. I have decided to set myself a new challenge. I have recently noticed the billboard sign as you enter into Palmerston North, advertising the Super 7k Walk/Run. It is on every Tuesday evening for seven weeks, starting at 6pm. You can either walk or run the 7km route. I looked the route up on the internet. On the small screen it looks possible. I used my car to establish how many kilometres long my road was in total. The round trip was exactly 4kms. I decided to see how long it would take me to walk that distance. I was so excited I did not take the time to think about what I was wearing – shoes included. Consequently, I was only halfway through my walk when my jeans became too hot and heavy and started to rub, my underarms were chafing and my slip-on shoes gave no support and were giving me blisters. The second half of this walk was at a slightly slower pace. All up, It took me 45 minutes. I have no idea whether this would be considered slow, average or otherwise, but I am aiming to get out there and keep walking and slowly better my time. I only have one week before the Super 7k walking challenge begins. The entry fee is $3 each night. There is the option to buy the T-shirt too. I have been hoping to find a friend to participate in the walks with me. However, so far no one has taken me up on the challenge. Oh well, never mind, I will continue in my endeavour to complete all seven walks. I don't have a time goal in mind; I just want to better my time each week if at all possible. I think the walking, in addition to my Zumba exercise each day, will surely help my weight-loss plan.

You would think it would be easier to lose weight over summer, right? Wrong. I tend to eat more junk food over the holidays. Maybe once school goes back, and I have a stable routine with an established normal eating pattern, things will get easier. Especially if I can stick to my goal and not eat the food cooked by the students, no matter how tempting it all looks.

This weight-loss thing is certainly a challenge. I look back on other challenges I have undergone throughout my life and can't believe that this is probably one of the hardest things I have done.

When I was 10, we went on a school camp and did the Ketetahi Springs' walk up Mt Ruapehu. It was approximately four hours to the summit and about three hours to get back down. My fitness level was moderate to low, but Mum and Dad had taken the family on plenty of walks and bike rides to help increase my capability. Still, no one (neither my parents nor the teachers) thought I would make it to the top.

The class divided itself into three groups. Group one was up the front walking at a faster pace, the middle group at a moderate pace, then the last group at a slow pace. Both my parents had come on the tramp. Dad was in the fast-paced group and Mum was in the second. Little did either of them know, but I was also in the fast-paced group but further ahead than Dad. I remember the tramp being challenging at times. The deep-set steps carved into the track were extremely big for little legs like mine, but I persevered. Not only did I make it to the top, but I was the third student (first girl) to make it to the summit. Wow, what a view. Dad showed up nearly 10 minutes later and was so surprised to see me there. Martin Bate, the principal at the time, was so proud of me he took a photo of me standing by the sign with both my thumbs up proudly. This was later displayed on the school photo board. I was coming back down the mountain again before I bumped into Mum, who was equally surprised that I had made it all the way.

What an accomplishment. I had never felt such personal pride before. It may even have topped the elation I felt at my graduation from university after spending three years obtaining my teaching degree. And believe me, those years were pretty gruelling at times.

I honestly believe that achieving things is more a state of mind than anything else. They say the mind is very powerful. Well, I was determined to climb to the summit all those years ago. My passion for teaching gave me the internal motivation I needed to complete my degree and was the reason I kept applying for teaching jobs even three years after I had graduated. By this stage several people were telling me to give up and find another career path. However, teaching was the only thing I ever wanted to do, so I just kept working as a day-to-day relief teacher and continued to circulate my CV around the schools in New Zealand. I did not just limit myself to the Manawatu region. And three and a half years later I achieved my goal and finally got a teaching position for term four, which led to my full-time permanent position within the same school today. Overcoming challenges means making a conscious decision every day to face your fears and doubts and beat the odds anyway.

My pre-zumba "flabulous" body.

Me at the finish line of the Super 7

The toilets in the Solomon Islands

The river where we bathed each day

The muddy result of yet another spectacular fall down the mudslide

Me hanging out with three of the local Solomon Island boys

Olivia, Amy and myself at the first stop during our Tongariro hike

The shingle path where I took a few tumbles

t

The Red Crater

Finally, I have completed the Tongariro Crossing in one piece may I add

Joe and I standing at the Bunds on the banks of the Huangpu River

The Pearl Tower in Shanghai, where we had lunch

So every morning I try to look in the mirror and tell myself I will achieve my goal weight no matter how long it takes. Then I drag myself into the lounge to do my daily portion of Zumba. Some days I love doing Zumba and can't wait to get the DVD on. Other days it is a slow, hard push to get myself motivated; even when I am going through the workout I notice I am sluggish and not really putting in 100 per cent effort. Usually halfway through, the natural adrenaline kicks in and I get into the swing of things. I always feel good afterwards. I don't think I have ever stuck with an exercise regime as long as I have been committed to this one. That alone is an accomplishment.

While we are still on the topic of various personal accomplishments, there is a more recent experience I wish to share with you. July 2010 saw me in the Solomon Islands on a school-based service trip. We went over there to build a church, after the Island of Kolombangara had been devastated by a tsunami back in 2007. The men went to do the physical building aspect. The students and I took a slightly more passive role, running a kids' club each day so that the parents could leave their children with us and help out at the building site, as it was school holidays over there too. The students organised games and activities for the local kids, who thoroughly enjoyed spending time with us 'white people'. We were the first group of white people ever to visit the remote island.

Now it should be mentioned why this trip was such a revelation to staff and students alike. On this island there was no power. This meant no TV, no iPods (as they could not be charged), no internet, no cell phone coverage, no landline facilities. We were completely cut off from the rest of the world. We did have a generator that was run for a few hours each night, but there were times we ran out of fuel so the generator went out, and that was it until someone went by boat to Gizo the next day (approximately an hour's boat ride away) to purchase more fuel. That was our only transport, boats. We were often out on the open water in nothing but a motorised boat holding up to 15 people; students were required to wear life jackets at all times.

The temperature was hot and muggy (owing to the humidity) and it was the wet season so this compromised how much could be done on the building site each day. Sometimes we spent time bucketing out the water-filled holes where the building's foundation posts were to go.

Then there were the physical challenges I had to overcome, which were many. Firstly, my feet and ankles swelled up like a water balloon, making it difficult to walk or bend my ankles. My skin was so tight it hurt and I could literally shake my foot and feel the fluid beneath my skin wobble like jelly. I could run my finger down my foot and almost part the water as I went. This, by the way, took a good two weeks to settle down once I came home. The other challenge, unsurprisingly, was my knees when walking up and down the track to the building site.

Then there were the mosquitoes and sand-flies which were quite partial to my blood. It did not matter what product I put on my skin (and believe me, I tried a variety of different things) they just loved me. So my legs were covered in red, itchy sores. I was not very good at leaving them alone either. I would scratch them and take off the top which would then attract all the flies. You have never seen so many flies in all your life congregating in one place. Seriously, in a matter of seconds my legs would be covered in flies which (and yes, I know this sounds disgusting) infiltrated my sores turning them into a real mess. I tried to cover some with plasters but I simply had too many to deal with. The flies were feeding off my flesh – gross!

The last challenge (but certainly not the least), which often had both the locals and my own students laughing in hysterics at me, was my inability to climb what I affectionately called the 'mudslide'. Because it was the wet season, the dirt path that led up the hill to the building site had turned into slush. It was so muddy and slippery, and my poor feet and knees were in such bad shape, that often I would take one step forward and slide back at least five paces. I have a not so flattering photo of myself after I slid back down the hillside on my backside and ended up looking like a mud yeti. No one (not even I) could contain the laughter on this particular occasion.

It was decided I might need a big stick to help me navigate the muddy pathway. This actually helped quite a bit. I was intrigued at how the local kids could run up and down this mudslide and not fall over or slip once. Even the Kiwi kids developed their local footing. Oh, but not me! The most humiliating moment was when not one but two local kids (one on each side) had to hold onto me and escort me up the hill. Truly, how pathetic I looked at this moment. There were times when I nearly cried, longing just to get to the top and see the end in sight. I did get better at this with practice and one day was even able to help carry up some timber, although this too was not my finest moment.

The boys could carry the timber pieces without help. Most of the girls took a piece of timber in pairs. But some of the girls managed to carry a single piece by themselves. This was an awesome sight to see. Then there was me. I, of course, needed help from a local child. Together we carried the wood up to the building site. I was over halfway there before I took my first dive back into the mud I had come to know so well. I got up, regained what little composure I had left and continued onwards.

I don't think anyone truly knew how physically or emotionally challenged I felt on this trip. It was draining and I constantly felt like I was letting the team down. However, it was a huge growing experience. And not just for me, but for all who were involved.

We all learnt to rely on God and his many miracles performed for us, and we learnt to bond and rely on each other as a team. The four staff members (me included) gained a new understanding of each other. We all had different strengths which complemented one another: where one was weak another was strong and we picked each other up. We also spend each evening encouraging the students who were with us, letting them know how valid their contribution to the team was and how we had seen them grow. It was amazing to see the difference in them the following day. They just glowed and had a new sense of purpose and self-worth.

The local support was amazing. We were so well looked after. The food we were fed each day was freshly cooked and it was a smorgasbord feast to choose from. Bonds were formed with the locals and tears were shed on both sides as we departed. The service trip was challenging but well worth it. Now I have yet another accomplishment to add to my ever growing list.

###  Chapter 7

In the previous chapter I talked about participating in the Super 7 challenge. I will now take you through each evening and explain the highs and lows throughout the series.

Walk One. Sadly, I did not start on this night as I had double-booked myself, but I heard that 1500 people participated.

Walk Two. I had finally convinced a friend to join me on the walks each evening. Dressed and raring to go, I rushed out the door and headed over to her place to pick her up. We headed down to the starting point. I queued to use the toilets before leaving the grounds, and then with my bottle of water in hand, I was ready to walk. The runners went first, followed approximately five minutes later the walkers were on their way. Cheryl and I set off at a steady pace. 10 minutes into the walk my sunglasses has fogged up and I had to keep taking them off to wipe them. We chatted as we walked and continued at a fairly good pace as we rounded the lagoon and walked past Massey University Teachers College campus. I was starting to heat up and wishing for a cool breeze, when suddenly we walked past a fence where a thoughtful resident had taken it upon himself (or herself) to attach his sprinkler to the fence and face it towards the path, leaving it on so that runners and walkers alike could revel in the delights of a quick, refreshing spray of water. It was a moment of pure bliss. As we rounded the next corner we could see the drink station up ahead – the halfway point. As I approached, I realised there was a small something in my shoe rubbing against my foot. I quickly sat down and brushed my sock off and shook out the shoe, replaced my footwear and stood up again to continue. I'd only gone a few paces when again I had to sit down and take my shoes off as something was still rubbing. On closer inspection I noticed the shoes were worn and small holes had begun to appear. As there was nothing I could do about it I put my shoes back on and walked on. The latter half of the walk was much more difficult. My feet by this stage were extremely sore and by the time I finally saw the 6km sign I felt like I was walking on broken glass. I knew there was only one more kilometre to go. I could do this. I pushed myself a little further and soon I saw the finish line. Picking up the pace in the last 400 metres I managed to walk over the finish line and receive my time of 1hr 19mins 30secs. I turned to Cheryl, ecstatic. I had thought it would take me an hour and a half to complete the walk. We headed over to get our free banana and a sausage wrapped in bread. Wow, was I hungry! By this stage I had finished all the water in my bottle and was ready to sit down and not move again for a very long time. We headed back to Cheryl's, where we had a light tea and blobbed on the couch and watched a movie.

When I got home and eased my extremely sore feet out of the shoes and removed the socks to examine the damage; I saw three huge blisters on one foot and two big blisters on the other. No wonder my feet could barely carry me anymore. I climbed into bed and slept soundly all night. I was also impressed that despite not having done any stretches to either warm up or warm down, I felt really good the next day. No aches and pains (except for the aforementioned blisters). I thought I had come off quite well, though it could be time to invest in some new shoes.

Walk Three. I had taken my own advice and had purchased new sneakers by this time. I had even gone to the Shoe Clinic so they could observe the way I walked and pick out the best shoes to cater for my needs. I had never paid so much for shoes before in my life. Previously the average price I had spent on sneakers was $30 to $50. However, I knew that in the long run the right shoes could also help to support my knees, so perhaps it was worth it. So $250 later I had a new pair of shoes. I was also talked into spending $30 on a pair of socks that absorb the sweat and can prevent blisters: they regulate the foot temperature and fit snugly preventing slip and slide in your shoes. I was decked out in the right gear and feeling confident we could beat our previous time.

Cheryl and I meet down at the grounds and this time her eldest daughter was accompanying us. We were lined up, doing some warm-up stretches, when we saw a few other walkers we knew. After a quick chat we were suddenly off. This time I was only 10 minutes into it when my calves started to cramp. I thought, how typical – last time I did no warm-up stretches and was fine, this time I did and I am sore already. I refused to slow down my pace though and kept going. By the time we got to the halfway mark my calves were feeling good but my feet were starting to hurt. I could feel blisters coming along. On this walk there was no stopping to readjust shoes and we kept the pace up fairly well. I think once we had done about 5km I noticed we had perhaps slowed down a little. At the 6km mark I tried to give it a little extra juice and by the last 400 metres I was really aching, but determined to push it until the end. Suddenly we crossed the finish line and to my delight I saw that we had completed the walk in 1hr 12mins 30 secs. We had shaved off seven minutes – yes! I had probably saved approximately three minutes by not stopping to take my shoes off, but still it was an accomplishment and left me feeling deliriously happy.

We had our banana, a cup of water and our sausage and then headed back to the van. Once I got home I took my new socks and shoes off and had a look at the soles of my feet. Despite the pain, they were in relatively good shape. Especially when compared to the previous week. There was a small blister on the side of the inner heel of each foot, so the socks had not completely prevented blisters, but they had done a much better job than the old pair of socks and sneakers had done. And these were new shoes, which usually take time to break in, and I had worn them only once during the weekend before using them to tackle the Super 7. All in all, not a bad effort, I thought.

Walk Four. The challenge: continue to decrease the time it takes me to complete the seven kilometre course. I was ready and raring to go. It was the second walk in my new sneakers and I was hoping the socks would prevent a blister breakout this time. We started out with a hiss and a roar. Within minutes my calves were again screaming for mercy. This week, for some reason, my water bottle felt extremely heavy and I could not get a firm grasp on it. I shifted it restlessly from hand to hand. I was determined to push myself harder. On occasion my friend would say, 'Shall we slow down a little?' I would grit my teeth and reply, 'No, I'm fine. I am going to do this.' I watched people, who looked way older than me, who simply seemed to stroll along at a leisurely pace and yet they passed me. How was this possible? I was huffing and puffing like the big bad wolf and felt like I was getting nowhere at all. I knew that the sprinkler guy was coming up and I was really looking forward to a cool-down. I could see his fence in sight, but wait . . . there was no sprinkler running tonight. My disappointment was great indeed. We rounded the bend and there was the halfway point. Hooray! My calves were still sore and my feet were just starting to join them.

One of the best views on the walk was just past the 4km point, where we were down on the bridle track walking alongside the river with the high bank looming straight in front of us. It was such a majestic sight with the evening glow of the sun streaking through the trees. It was then that I saw a sight which totally bewildered and humbled me. I was bitterly complaining to myself about how much pain I was in, when I looked up to see myself being overtaken by a guy who was pushing his baby in a stroller and had his toddler daughter strapped to his back. What a load he was carrying, and there he was overtaking me. His back must have been killing him but he showed no sign of stopping, and he was telling his daughter they were the 'over-takers', as they were busy trying to catch up to his wife. What a cute picture it made. But boy, did it put me to shame, and helped me to put my own measly efforts into perspective.

Cheryl and I decided to increase our efforts. We were approaching the last kilometre mark and I was ready to pass out with sheer exhaustion as we continually pushed ourselves beyond what I thought was possible. My hunger for the finish line by now was so great I could almost taste the sausage wrapped in bread with tomato sauce dripping through my fingers. I could hear the announcer calling out times as people crossed the finish. I could not yet hear exactly what he said but the end was near. Suddenly, with excitement, I could see the finish line and a new wind and energy surged through my muscles. I saw the clock, 1hr 9mins 45secs. Come on, I thought, push yourself harder; make it under 1hr 10mins. I was almost there when it clicked over. Final time: 1hr 10mins 5 secs. We had shaved off another two and a half minutes. Not too shabby, considering the slippery under-path we'd endured for part of the journey.

I neglected to say that during the day it had rained, turning some of the pathway into a treacherous and muddy track. Thankfully, most of the race was on the road or a footpath, but approximately two kilometres of it was simply a dirt path. This made the going hard in some places but still I was not giving up. I had now completed three walks and had decreased my time by a total of 9 minutes and 25 seconds. Of course, this does make it harder each week to maintain my goal and reduce the time it takes. Perhaps I can take another couple of minutes off next week. To get it under an hour and 10 minutes would be awesome. To get it under an hour would be a small miracle.

I have a particular reason to be especially motivated at the moment. The Year 13 camp at school is coming up in about nine weeks' time. This trip will take place in Taupo and will include the Tongariro Crossing. The approximately 18km tramp to the top of Mt Tongariro, across the summit and down the other side, takes anything between six hours on a good day and nine hours on a bad day. Weather affects the success of the trip, as does the general health and well-being of the group. Now, my knees are a concern as it is not an easy feat to climb a steep mountain. I have faith that I can do it but I know for a fact that some of my colleagues have their doubts. I also wonder whether they are using my knees as an excuse because they are too polite to say: 'We think you are too fat and unfit to make this journey.' This would hardly encourage a positive working relationship. But there you have it, my intrinsic motivation for these walks. I decided to ask the orthopaedic surgeon if he thought it possible for me to successfully complete the Tongariro crossing. He had no reservations at all; he advised me to take pain relief and anti-inflammatory medication before setting out and to carry a supply with me to take part-way through, but otherwise he saw no reason why I should not partake in the adventure and thought that it might be good for my knees. (The more exercise I can do the better.) He also suggested a smaller hike first, such as the one that goes through the Manawatu Gorge. I had considered doing this in the past but had never got around to it. Perhaps now was a good time to fit it into my busy schedule.

I have also decided to take on other challenges. There is the Bunnythorpe/Feilding to Palmerston North walk, approximately 15 kilometres, plus a half-marathon coming up. Wow, that would be a big one – 21 kilometres. That's three times the Super 7. I will take each one as it comes and see where it gets me. For now, I still have the last three walks to complete in the Super 7. This in itself has been a challenge. But now I am at the halfway point I can see light at the end of the tunnel.

Walk Five. Even before setting out I could foresee problems looming. My old blisters had not healed so I'd popped them and drained out the excess water. I'd initially left the skin on so it could continue to heal on its own. However, I then got this idiotic notion into my head that to treat my feet to a little pampering I would give them a pumice treatment and a sugar scrub to remove the dead skin cells, then I would massage in some moisturizer. But I did not think about the skin covering my delicate blisters. It was torn off by the pumice, leaving the raw skin underneath exposed and extremely sore. I had to use scissors to tidy up the mess I had made to the soles of my feet. The next morning I could barely walk and the Super 7 walk was that evening. So it is safe to say that this was not my finest moment. I decided to do the walk regardless and simply layered my feet in plasters before donning my sneakers.

The event was agony. My calves were burning, my feet were aching and I was barely 10 minutes into the walk. The whole way around was a huge struggle. I kept praying to God that he would help me through it and give me the strength I needed to finish and, if possible, still beat (or at least match) my previous time. The positive news was that the sprinkler guy was back in action – yay, my personal life-saver! It only takes 1.5 seconds to walk through the misty spray but it is so refreshing and really gives me a boost. On this walk we had invited another friend. She was striding out comfortably at a fair pace. This only further depressed me as I waddled miserably behind her. I had never been so grateful to see the finish line.

This has definitely been the hardest walk to date. Each week has felt harder than the previous one. I think it's because each week I push myself to go faster so I can shave minutes off my time. This week, however, I did not shave anything off my time. As we crossed the finish line, the clock read 1hr 10mins 25secs. It had taken 20 seconds longer. I staggered over to get my banana and sausage. Then Cheryl said she was shouting her kids takeaways as three out of four of them had completed the walk too. She invited me back to their place to share in the delights of pizza and a cup of tea. This was like the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow; I felt my efforts had all been worth it.

When I finally got home and removed my socks and shoes and stripped the badly worn plasters off my feet, the damage was obvious. I think I need to take a trip back to the Shoe clinic for a reassessment. Is it the shoes, my walking style, or just a natural part of breaking-in new shoes? Each week before the old blisters have had sufficient time to heal, new blisters form in exactly the same place causing a double-layered effect. You can imagine how bad they are now after four walks – new shoes or no new shoes, this is becoming a problem.

The prognosis after revisiting the Shoe Clinic was reassuring. The original shoes were not quite as compatible with my feet as we had first thought. They quickly found another pair that was a good fit and after walking around in them I decided to give them a go. The blisters were still painful, making it difficult to tell if these shoes would be right for me, but the good news is that the 30-day guarantee started again from today's date. I think I need to let the current blisters heal first before truly testing out the new shoes. This means I will most likely have to miss the next walk to allow my blisters to heal. I am hoping my feet are fit in two weeks' time though to complete the last walk of the Super 7. It would be such a shame to miss the last one, especially as I still want to better my time and get it under 1hr 10 mins.

Footnote: I did not make it back to do the last Super 7 walk.

### Chapter 8

Year 13 camp has come and gone and so has the Tongariro Crossing. The good news is I completed the crossing in one piece. The bad news is that all my style, grace and dignity was left back at the starting point.

We split the group up into two, a slow group and a fast group. The slow group got to head off first. The challenge was to see if the fast group could catch up to the slow one. Naturally, I opted to go in the slow group and was determined that the second group would not catch us (fingers crossed). The teachers decided to run a sweepstake and pick a spot on the hike where they thought the two groups might meet and become one. We knew the slow group would have a two to three hour lead. Some teachers suggested we would meet at the Red Crater, another thought it would be the Emerald Lakes. I decided to be bold and say we would not meet up again until the end of the hike, down at the car park. We each agreed to put in $1 – winner takes all.

The slow group (me included) headed off on the tramp at 8.30am. I was feeling confident, it was a good day and the track was pretty easy (at that stage, anyway). Spirits were high amongst the students and staff. However, an hour into the tramp and things changed drastically. After our first pit stop at Mangatepopo Hut, we had to navigate what the locals affectionately call The Devil's Staircase. At this point it was almost all over for me. It was not a proud moment in my life's history thus far. For here my fitness level was really put to the test – needless to say it failed miserably. With each passing step I felt more and more helpless and pathetic. The sun was beating down mercilessly on our backs and the heat made it all the more oppressive. I noticed that many of the students were starting to struggle at this point and the group started to spread out along the track.

I was at the back with another teacher and about four or five students. Each of us questioning why we were even attempting this near impossible feat – me most of all. I had really wanted this: to be a part of Year 13 camp and achieve success at the hands of the Tongariro Crossing. Now the self-doubt had crept up and slapped me in the face. I felt like I was at the lowest point in my life and couldn't possibly imagine anything more humiliating.

Each step I took literally took my breath away. My chest felt so constricted I could almost imagine what it would be like to have asthma. I felt near to tears and kept saying: 'I can't do this – I really can't' and that Devil's Staircase just kept on going. I knew there was no alternative; I could not turn back as that would mean the whole group had to turn back with me. I just could not do that to the kids. However, by the same token, I was honestly not sure I could go on. At this point, I thought my only option was too collapse to one side of the track, and allow the birds to slowly peck away at my flesh till there was nothing left but my carcass. My epitaph would read: Here lies Lisa. Fat and unfit. She finally bit off more than she could chew.

However, this was not to be the end of my sad and sorry tale. My calves ached and I was feeling nauseous, but neither the staff member nor the students would give up on me. They pushed me and encouraged me throughout the trek. Gavin, my colleague, even carried my pack for me on several occasions (despite having recently undergone surgery on his leg to remove a small tumour and do a skin graft). Yet again I was humiliated and humbled by this experience. This same teacher then gave me his hiking stick so I had something to lean on as I dragged my sorry arse up the mountain.

The relief, when we finally came to the end of Devil's Staircase, was immense. Here it levelled out for a while; unfortunately this plateau did not last. The next hour of the hike once again headed steeply up towards heaven. This part of the track was rocky. In some respects it was easier than before, but I still needed my own little support team to get me through. Every now and then I would stumble backwards and a student would reach out and grab me before I hit the deck. At one point the track narrowed dramatically and there was a huge drop on one side and a cliff face on the other. We hugged the wall and slithered along carefully. This was unnerving for many students, yet for some reason it did not bother me. I was not worried about the drop, just the thought of having to continue on this upwards climb for what seemed like forever.

Eventually I could see we were making progress and the end was in sight. Standing at the top and looking back at the road I had travelled did give me a sense of achievement. I had expected the next part of my journey to look remarkably easy as at least we were heading downhill. That was before I saw the slippery gravel path I was expected to conquer. I watched as students almost skied down the little stones with no problems at all. I dug my heels in and started down. I slipped and fell several times and clung onto a student for support throughout various parts of the downwards journey.

I could see the Emerald Lakes where we were stopping for lunch. I could see the rest of the slow group down there leisurely enjoying their food. I half-expected the fast group to suddenly come upon me and slide on down before me. I kept my head down and gingerly moved my feet forward. Most people took only a few minutes to get down that little track. I took about 15 minutes. Once I made it to the lakes I was so pleased to sit down and rest for a moment. Most of the group was heading off as I sat down to eat my buns and drink some more water. I didn't mind. I was thrilled to have made it this far. I had climbed to the top of the mountain, walked past the Red Crater, slid down the slippery slope and now I was rewarded with a break and refreshments. The rest of the slow group that had moved on already had enjoyed a 30-minute break. I only got 10 minutes before I was off again.

The downward hike was certainly easier and there were more flat parts too. Every now and then we headed uphill for a while, causing me to grimace, but then we would wind our way down again. Suddenly I could see Ketetahi Hut, our next stop. My joy was short-lived when I discovered the path, instead of heading down directly towards the hut, slowly zigzagged its way across the mountainside; it took a good hour to get there. We had a 10-minute pit stop there before continuing on. I was extremely surprised we had not encountered the fast group by this stage – I had felt sure they would catch us up.

Eventually we hit the bush line and some welcome shelter from the burning sun, and I knew that the end was attainable. I thought we were approximately an hour away from the car park. Unfortunately, it was still almost two hours away. However, I had renewed energy. I had picked up my pace and my student support was keeping pace with me too. We started passing several other groups of students who were tired and sore and ready to give up. One group of students was shocked that we had overtaken them. Well, you know what they say: slow and steady wins the race.

The track was shaded now and the scenery was so lovely that the walk had almost become pleasant; though my feet were screaming out in agony. There were many bends in the path and every now and then we encountered another rise. Why on earth the track felt the need to climb was beyond me – surely we needed to be heading back down the mountain.

At one stage we came across a young couple heading in the other direction. By this stage I was totally over the tramp and desperately wanted the end to be around the next bend. I stopped to ask them how far it was to the car park. The young girl answered, 'About half an hour.' 'No,' countered the boyfriend, 'it's probably only about 20 minutes away.' I looked at my student companion, '20 minutes sounds better, let's go with that.' We thanked them and kept going.

The next part of the journey was the longest 35 minutes of my life. Every time we thought we could see light through the trees we would get excited, only to be let down. Sometimes we thought we could hear voices, but perhaps it was just other hikers nearby as the elusive end was still nowhere in sight.

When the end did come upon us it was so abrupt I couldn't believe we had finally made it. I burst out of the bush with such a triumphant smile on my face and the crowd went wild screaming out in support and acclamation. I felt like a rock star. OK, so maybe not a rock star, exactly, but I was feeling extremely proud that I had made it out alive, in one piece and with only minor battle wounds. I had done it. I had actually completed the Tongariro Crossing. I looked at my watch. I had completed it in seven hours – not bad, I thought – and I was not the last person in our group to finish. The biggest miracle was that the fast group had not caught up to me. How was that even possible?

The rest of our group made it out in seven and a half hours and within 10 minutes of our last person emerging, the first of the fast group came barrelling through the trees hurtling themselves over the finish line, sweaty and panting. The fast group all finished within about 20 minutes of each other. They were bitterly disappointed they had not overtaken any of us, but they had completed the hike in record time: between 4 hours, 15 minutes and 4 hours, 35 minutes. (I don't actually know whether it was a genuine new record, but I was certainly impressed.)

All students were now flopped out on the ground in various degrees of exhaustion, myself included. But it was over; we had all successfully completed the crossing incident free. I was looking forward to putting my feet up and eating comfort food.

The next day I felt so much pride when I realised that I was relatively OK, my muscles were still in working order and although I was slightly sore, it was nothing too drastic. Yes, I had come off lightly in comparison to what I had expected. That night we went to the hot pools. What bliss it was to soak my overworked body. After marinating for several hours I came out looking like a shrivelled prune. This was when I first noticed that my muscles were starting to rebel. They were becoming stiff, increasingly sore and unforgiving. Maybe I had not got away scot-free after all.

That night I went to bed and prayed I would still be able to function the next day. Part-way through the night I woke up and had my answer. I was hot and decided to kick off my sleeping bag, but when I attempted the kicking action I was horrified to discover I could barely move. The pain was intense. My legs felt as though they were filled with concrete. I moaned as quietly as I could so as not to wake up my roommate. Eventually I managed to reposition myself and drift back to sleep.

The next morning I was dubious about trying to get up out of bed. I gingerly slid my legs off the bed and rotated myself into a sitting position. My hips were aching, my legs were sore; my ankles seemed unable to bend. Would I even be able to support my own weight (which was substantial)? My toes grazed the carpet. I inched off the bed and started to lean into the standing motion. Ow, torture! I shuffled across the floor heading towards the door, I desperately needed the bathroom. Easing myself into the sitting position again was equally as hard. At least no one else seemed to be up to witness my downfall. I hurried back to the sanctuary of my room.

I seriously doubted my ability to go rafting later that day. I was pretty sure if I fell out of the boat I would drown as I would be unable to swim to save myself. I decided to see how I felt after I had managed to get dressed, which in itself was going to be a challenge. Dragging my clothes on was indeed a mission. And to add to matters a student knocked on the door while I was attempting to twist my mangled muscles into my pants. I stood in front of her, holding my clothes in front of me to cover myself and tried (unsuccessfully) to look normal. However, when I had to shuffle across the room to lend her a towel for the shower, all pretence was laid aside. She cracked up laughing until she was nearly crying. Yup, my humiliation was now complete.

Walking all the way up the hill to breakfast was also misery. Once I finally got there and stepped ever so gracefully into the dining room I realised many pairs of eyes were watching me. 'A little sore today, Miss?' cried a voice from somewhere in the crowd, as if I even needed to dignify that question with an answer.

The rest of the day progressed just as slowly and painfully as it had started. And as for the rafting adventure, I did indeed sit that one out and opted instead to visit a café and enjoy an iced coffee, then lay in the grass reading a good book while we awaited the students' return.

All in all, despite all the effort, pain and humiliation I still thoroughly enjoyed the Year 13 camp and I am so pleased I went on it. Will I do it all again next year with a new group of students? Well, that is debatable; I think once is probably enough for this poor body to take.

### Chapter 9

In a previous chapter, I spoke about my difficulties during the Solomon Island mission trip I was involved in with the school back in 2010. This year (2011) we are taking another team back. At first I was not so sure I should go. Remembering the struggles and some of the more negative experiences I thought perhaps I should sit this one out. However, God had other plans for me and eventually I made the decision to go back and finish what we had started.

Just to recap on what the conditions were like: students learnt to bathe in the river, survive without power and modern technology and slept on the floor of a pretty basic dwelling. The toilets we used had been made especially for us, a basic affair – no toilet seat, just bowl – that sat over a long drop. We had a barrel outside with water from the river and a bucket which we used to manually flush the toilet. Every morning we created a human chain and filled the barrels up with river water. There were toilets, one for the boys and one for the girls. There were three walls around each toilet, but no door. We slung a lava-lava (sarong) across the opening for privacy. This was more than we had been expecting and we were thrilled. The house we stayed in was still in the process of being built. The doors and windows were just open gaps. There were none of the normal luxuries one would find at home here in New Zealand. But then again, it was more than I thought we would have in the way of accommodation. We threw down our foam mattresses or self-inflating mattresses (whatever we had brought with us), attached our mosquito nets and just like that, we had beds. Privacy was not easily obtainable; we all quite quickly adjusted to sharing our living spaces as best as we could, with guys and girls doing their best to avoid any tricky or embarrassing situations. Group bathing in the river was fun; the mud was not so much fun. And here is where things became hard for me. You will remember I was not a fan of the mud and had many difficulties tackling that slippery hill to get to the church. My feet and ankles swelled and I was bitten until I resembled a fine-weaved sieve.

So why was I returning? Let me just say that I am so pleased I did, as this years' experience was totally different to the previous year.

I loved every minute of our second trip. We took over a smaller group of students (only six) but a bigger group of volunteer builders. We spent less time in Honiara, and this time when we went to the markets most of us felt like old pros; it did not seem to be as intimidating. I even thought to take photos this time to document the experience.

We flew to Gizo then took a boat to Kolombangara. We arrived during the day this time, and the locals put on an awesome welcome for us. They dressed in their national costume and greeted us with songs and leis to place around our necks. It was a beautiful welcoming ceremony.

The mud did not seem to be as bad, nor were the flies as bothersome. Although I still got bitten, even the bites did not seem as bad; there were perhaps as many but they did not become infected this time. The food was still delicious, and the house had been worked on further since our last visit and was now almost complete. It rained every day we were there, and getting clothes dry was still an issue, but it was one I was adequately prepared for. I modified a sarong so that I would be able to bath in the river, giving myself more privacy.

Now, to tackle that hill, I was so nervous and dreading the thought of having to go up to the building site and the church. On our first afternoon we decided to go up and see what progress had been made while we were away. The local kids came up with us, and being unsure of what to expect, I decided to head on up first so that I might actually make it up there before the last student overtook me.

I was pleasantly surprised. Although I was still exhausted and had to take a mini-break halfway up the steep climb, I did make it all the way to the church site without falling over once. This was a first, and one I was exceptionally proud of. I had mastered the first climb of many. For the duration of our stay I successfully scaled up and down the hill with no problems. Well, that is until someone gave me some advice. They told me it would be even easier if I ran down the hill. As I was getting braver (and clearly more delusional) I decided to give this a go.

I started out OK, managing to manoeuvre my way down and keep my footing. Then all of a sudden I started to gain momentum. I could not slow down, my acceleration kicked up another gear and I was near flying down the hill. I would have been feeling as free as a bird, except for the fact that I was too heavy to actually get any airlift. Or so I thought. I was three-quarters of the way down when I knew I was out of control and had to try and stop. A local woman tried to grab me as I hurtled towards the bottom. I flung out my arm to grab her, missed, and tumbled spectacularly to the ground. I am not sure how long I rolled for but ended up face planted in a prickly pineapple bush and momentarily knocked myself out. Apparently it was a sight to see. Those behind me said I looked like an angel flying down the hill. They even thought I would make it. But my ensuing fall was so violent, and I went so limp afterwards, their good-natured amazement turned to horror.

The world went from black, to grey, to spinning colours (much like a kaleidoscope), to finally a sense of order. I immediately attempted to sit up, but the two local women held me down. Bit by slow bit they got me into a sitting position, then standing, and eventually guided me down the hill, one on either side. My head felt like it had been split open. Then, to my horror, I realised my left boob was extremely sore. It was throbbing and I cradled it tenderly as we continued back to the village.

To add to my humiliation, my helpers pointed out my shortcomings in no uncertain terms. It went something like this: 'Lisa, you not run downhill, you too big, Lisa, Too heavy to run down the hill.' Great, so now I am clumsy and fat, and about to burst into tears. This was all getting too much.

Once we reached the village the women decided to throw me into the creek. They unceremoniously stripped off my T-shirt and proceed to douse me in cold water and massage me. They worked on my arms, legs and yes – you guessed it, my left boob. Oh, the humiliation, as both my students and the local kids looked on. Most of the people surrounding me were filled with concern. The local kids, however, were re-enacting my fall so that others who had missed the front row seats could enjoy the second-hand entertainment.

I sat there for what seemed like forever, but was probably only 10 minutes, until someone produced a dry sarong for me to wrap around myself. I was escorted into the house where my remaining wet clothes were stripped off me and I was placed upon the couch. The sarong was slung over me so I was decently covered. Janese went to get me some lunch and I took some painkillers. All I wanted was to be left in peace to overcome my shame and humiliation and get some much needed sleep.

This was not to be. A male work colleague decided that now would be a great time to come and plonk himself down at the end of my couch and rattle on about what a great trip we were having and how wonderful the kids all were. While I busily tried to hold the sarong in place so as not to expose myself. I lay there and wondered (not for the first time) how do I get myself into these situations? Well, that spectacular fall put me out of circulation for 24 hours, but I had no further issues with the hill and was not afraid to re-tackle it within a few days.

Meanwhile, 48 hours later, we walked through the rainforest. We had to cross the river several times and were told not to touch certain plants as they were highly poisonous.

The trek took about 20 or 30 minutes and there was no direct pathway. The local kids had no problems navigating their way through the terrain. They showed us some strong vines that you could use for swinging across. Owing to my recent fall, I decided it was possibly safer not to attempt this particular activity. We got to the bridge, which was the road that led up to the church from the other side. This took another 20 minutes before we finally arrived at the building site. Here, we took a well-deserved break and saw how the progress was going. We each planted a flower in memory of our visit. This was such a lovely touch. Then it was back to the village down that all too familiar mudslide. I was slightly nervous, but took it in my stride. The rest of the trip went off without a hitch. I loved every minute and found it hard to leave.

Once back in Honiara, we discovered that the plane had been delayed for two days and the airline was going to put us up in a hotel for two nights, all expenses paid. Wow, what luxury. It is funny how our perspective changes depending on our experiences. We had just come from the basics, with no power or running water, to suddenly having beds to sleep in, power to use, hot showers and flushing toilets. It was a five-star hotel (Honiara-style, which is). By New Zealand standards it wasn't up to much. We would have been cringing at the peeling paint and the walls that weren't quite square, the fridges that did not work and the pretty basic accommodation. However, to us it really was a five-star paradise. There was even a swimming pool. The food tasted amazing and we could order whatever we wanted and it was all covered. Well, except for alcohol – but being a school organisation and a Christian school, we did not find this restriction a problem. The students had been so disappointed about the delay in going home, but once we reached the hotel then all was made right. It was the perfect way to end our mission trip.

It was a long trip home. We got back at 3am one cool Friday morning and then I was up again at 7am to take a student to the airport so she could fly north to see her family. In the end, we only got the luxury of a long weekend before having to head back to school to start another term.

The little village church is having its official opening in December. I would love to go back for it but alas, it's not possible. Maybe one day I will return and see the finished project.

### Chapter 10

So you may well be wondering how the weight journey is going? Indeed, for many months now I have been at a stalemate. I had plateaued at a loss of only 3kgs and there had been no movement for so long that I had even given up on Zumba. Then one day I jumped on the scales to find I had lost another 500gms. This encouraged me to restart my Zumba sessions.

I had been helping a friend with Zumba, going through the basic movements with her. It had been fun to have someone to exercise with and laugh with while I tried to lose some of this bulk around my middle. We were both enjoying it, when suddenly life became so busy for each of us that we just never managed to co-ordinate our times to meet up for our daily exercise programme. So once again Zumba fell by the wayside – I had become a workaholic and couch slob yet again. I needed a new motivating factor to help me. A student was able to give me that.

She was going through the photos of my holiday to Shanghai (only three weeks after the Solomon Island trip) when she suddenly exclaimed, 'Wow Miss, you look really thin, you look so awesome, you have lost so much weight.' I was so happy I nearly cried. 'Really?' was about all I managed to say in response. 'Yeah, Miss. Can't you tell? If you look at photos of you from before, and look at yourself now, can't you see how much you have lost?'

To be honest, no I can't. I don't see someone who has lost a lot of weight. I still see a fat blimp. This, however, is not what I told my student. I merely said, 'Yeah, I suppose so.' But it did the trick.

That night I completed my first Zumba session in about two months. And boy, did I pay for it too. When I went back to school later that night to do my evening duty with the boarders I could barely walk. My knees were killing me, I was in pure agony. By the next day my hips were sore too. Man, you can get out of practice really quickly.

I am pleased to say I have resumed my previous efforts and am now making sure I fit in quality Zumba sessions at night. I am feeling better for it too; it does actually feel good to exercise. Man that is a phrase I never thought I would ever say. I use to like the old Garfield saying: 'Every time I think about exercise I go and lie down until the thought goes away'. That has to be pure genius. Well maybe not, after all Garfield is a pretty fat cat. I do not wish to resemble my cartoon friend in any form or fashion. Just as well I am sticking with my exercise regime.

I have now signed up for tango lessons. How exciting is this! A friend at work told me about them. She recently took some classes and said it was so much fun. I love the idea of learning some more dance moves and getting fit in the process. Seventy dollars covers eight lessons and CD of Latin music to play at home. We are also going to attend a charity event hosted in Wellington that will be showcasing Latin rhythms.

I can't wait to add the tango to my repertoire of dances which includes rock 'n' roll, salsa, line dancing, folk dancing and freestyle. If it involves music, I am usually pretty keen. It is also a chance to get out and meet new people; I so often stay in my own social circles and do not push myself beyond my comfort level. So turning up to a tango class where I will know absolutely no one is slightly daunting.

Well, I have come to the end of my tango lessons now and I have to say it has been an interesting experience. To start with I showed up by myself to be met with mostly couples who had come together to learn tango. There were a few other singles like me. We waited around the edge nervously, barely making eye contact with each other.

It was interesting on two main counts. Firstly, we had to learn the close embrace where we had diaphragm-to-diaphragm contact. This is rather uncomfortable when you are holding so closely onto a stranger. Secondly, we had to change partners at the end of each song. This actually made me feel better. No matter who I danced with they would be strangers (until we started to get to know each other, of course). But for the couples who thought they would only dance with each other, well it put us all on an even plane as they too would have to dance with strangers.

I enjoyed my time at tango and got to meet new people. There was one guy who was perhaps a little too overenthusiastic. He sometimes made me feel uncomfortable and even asked if I wanted to practise with him privately. I politely declined the invitation. I may go back next year and do the next level, where you learn more techniques and learn more about the customs involved in traditional tango.

I mentioned earlier in the chapter that I also took a trip to Shanghai. This was totally unexpected. I had only been back from the Solomon Islands for about 48 hours, when a friend, Joe, mentioned he was travelling to Shanghai in three weeks' time and would love a travelling companion. He asked if I would be interested in going.

Was I interested? You bet I was. It turned out there would be free accommodation in Shanghai, and all I had to do was find the airfare and obtain permission from the school principal to take a week's unpaid leave. My leave was duly granted, and I managed to rustle up $2000 to cover the cost of my ticket, plus some extra for spending money. I was worried about getting a Chinese visa at such short notice, but even that turned out to be no problem. So I booked the ticket and I was on my way to Shanghai.

Joe travelled business class and I went economy. I knew no Chinese before I left, but was able to say a few basic sentences by the time I came back. We were only there five days – which included the day we arrived and the day we left.

Joe's friend, Lee, met us at Shanghai Pudong International Airport, and we boarded the high-speed Maglev train (a train that runs on magnets so it levitates). It can travel at more than 400kms per hour (but they cut it off at 300kms). It takes eight minutes to get from the airport into the city. Not sure how many kilometres that is but believe me, we travelled a long way in a short time.

Lee took us back to his apartment where we were staying. As we had just travelled for 12 hours, it was decided we should take a nap then go out in the evening when Lee had finished work. He took us to the Bund on banks of the Huangpu River, which flows through the city. At night all the buildings are lit up and it looks magnificent. On one side it resembles New York (with all the high-rise buildings) and on the other it reminds me of London. Not that I have visited either of these fine destinations – but I have seen movies and photos.

We walked through one of the shopping malls and wandered around the city. We stopped off for a late dinner (around 1am) and then had a foot massage (around 2am) before returning to the apartment. Actually, the massage place was right next to our apartment building and we visited it almost daily. It only cost $13NZ for a one-hour foot and leg massage. How awesome is that! The following day we went to Madame Tussauds Wax Museum, followed by lunch at the revolving restaurant in the well-known Pearl Tower.

Catching taxis was an eye-opening experience. None of the taxi drivers spoke English, so we would either print out our destination in Chinese or I would take a photo of the destination and its name and show the taxi driver. We always managed to get to the right places so we were doing something right.

I would try not to watch the roads too much while we were driving around. They were so scary. If there were road rules I could not figure them out. There were cars and people everywhere. A pedestrian crossing does not mean it is safe to cross – it means cross at your own peril. Cars do not use indicators, they merely toot to say they are coming through – make room. I saw a bus and a car try to share the same lane. The car got so close that its side mirror snapped back and scrapped against the side of the bus. There were times when I wanted to get out and kiss the ground because we'd made it alive, but I figured that was not very hygienic.

We engaged in high tea in the highest building in Shanghai, visited People's Square and went to a big grocery department store to look at their local produce. We went to a fabrics' market and met Ivy. She was lovely. She fitted us out for new clothes. We chose the design and the fabric and were measured up on the spot. Twenty-four hours later we went back and picked up our tailored outfits. We sampled green tea at a Chinese tea shop, and also visited the French Concession with its distinctly European style. It was like stepping into another world.

The most amazing place we ate at while over in China was a tofu restaurant. We ordered about seven dishes to share amongst four people. There were marinated beef strips, satay chicken, dumplings with a soup inside, sausages etcetera.

We tried them all; if I had not known we were in a tofu restaurant I would have assumed we were eating meat. Back home, I hate tofu; I have never tried it in a way that is palatable. But over there, it looked and tasted just like the real thing. It was truly incredible. Had Lee's friend Rose (a local woman) not been there, then we would not have been able to order as the menu was in Chinese. Not only was the meal spectacular, it was so cheap. It cost 200RMB – which would've been 50RMB ($10NZ) each, except that Rose paid for dinner that night. Who eats that cheaply? Seven dishes and refillable green tea all night for $10NZ!

So we enjoyed food, sightseeing, massages and of course, shopping. Let me tell you about our shopping. This was also an eye-opener. I believe that having been to the Solomon Islands and seeing the way they barter over there gave me a little insight. But it was still such a difference from the way we do things here in New Zealand. I know it gave Joe a bit of a shock at first.

We stepped into a three-storey building – I was expecting a mall but instead it was a marketplace. Each stall was U-shaped in design.

We had been forewarned not to pay any more than a third of the original asking price. We had fun learning how to barter with the locals. The banter went back and forth with comments such as: 'pretty lady, I want to be your friend, I offer you best price'. In the end, I think all parties were happy and we departed with handbags, wallets, sunglasses, watches, and gifts for people back home. I had to find a money machine and draw out more cash.

I loved the shopping in Shanghai and would definitely like to go back and spend longer there, and take more money over with me. It seemed such a shame that we were so close to the Great Wall of China but did not have time to go there to see it. So that is also on my to-do-list if I ever get the chance to return.

It is funny how life works out. I would never have thought to go to China before this trip and now I am so pleased I went. So, two overseas trips in one year – I would not have thought it possible. Each entirely different: one, a school mission trip and very Third World and the other, a holiday in the lap of luxury. Both offered me so much in terms of learning about different cultures.

I now want to continue travelling further afield. Prior to going to China I had only been to Australia and various islands in the South Pacific. Now I really feel as though I have left my own backyard. Where to next year – who knows? I have plans to one day travel throughout Europe. This trip will take a few years in the planning and a lot of money. China was the first time I had truly been to a non-English speaking country and that in itself was an experience. I have always wanted to learn Spanish; maybe someday I will get to Spain or to South America or Mexico. Maybe I could whip out my tango moves while I was there. Who knows what life has in store for me next.

### Epilogue

So now I have reached the end of this book. So where do I stand in regards to my weight loss? To recap: at the last check-in I had plateaued at 3kgs and then suddenly lost another 500gs, putting my total weight loss at 3.5kgs.

It took me six months to lose the original 3kgs and six months to keep it off. I was pleased with the progress. Then I lost sight of the ball. This is not the fairy tale ending I would have liked for myself. Not only have I regained the 3.5kgs over the past four months but I have found some extra fatty kilos along the way. I now am at my heaviest weight ever – 85kgs. That is 2.6kgs heavier than my starting weight. I feel so disillusioned. It is my own fault. I stopped exercising and the weight reappeared almost instantaneously. I feel that after so much hard work I am not sure I even have the strength to start over again. It has to be lifestyle choice, a commitment made. My heart lacks the get-up-and-go it needs to get back on the horse (or into Zumba again) and shed these unwanted kilos. It is certainly not as easy as they make it look on all the TV ads where they sell hopes and dreams to people like me. It is a long journey and one where I am still capable of taking the wrong turns. I cannot afford to go up another dress size; I need to do something about this now. Fat cells multiply far too easily for my liking.

Over the summer in the New Year I am planning to start Zumba again and go walking every other day. I may even take up swimming twice a week, as I have been told that I lost the most weight, toned up and looked fantastic, many years ago when I was regularly swimming. It is not overly good for my hair; the chlorine strips it and dries it out, but a good conditioner should do the trick, I hope. This battle is not over. There have been casualties on both sides. But I will reign victorious over my fat cells.

I am pleased to say that my eating habits have become better. I eat more slowly now and eat smaller portions. I still need to continue to decrease the amount I eat as it is still too much, but I find monitoring how fast I eat helps. If I can eat slowly I feel fuller with my smaller amounts. I have also not indulged in my beloved McDonald's for approximately two months now. Every little bit helps.

I may currently know how to look 'flabulous' by hiding my bulging body behind the right clothing. But one day I hope to look truly fabulous and be brave enough to break out in a bikini again. For now, this is where my story ends.

