Treating myself to a new body for my birthday

For a while now, I’ve been moderately obsessed with getting my old body back. And I’ve restarted this challenge at least once a week and often even had the audacity to publicly announce my physical transformation.
Only to then never speak of it again when I dropped off the wagon of doing more yoga and working less. And instead didn’t do any yoga and worked even harder than ever before.
So I never got “there”.
Just yesterday, within days after cutting a deal with myself that these blog posts were going to be written in an hour, so that I had a chance of taking care of my basic physical needs with yoga, home cooked meals, daylight and a bike ride, I turned myself inside out at my writing desk and came up with a piece that stretched three hours and three decades.
Bye bye basic needs.
I did have a bike ride though, because I always clean the yoga studio on Tuesdays. So then the bike ride is work, which means there is a hundred percent higher chance that I’ll actually prioritize it.
So I was in the city, and my day had went awol first because of the way too long blogpost and then by a draining but effective series of phone calls and paperwork for last week’s creditcard fraude.
I was now walking the streets with an envelop, which I could not post anywhere because postal services have removed half of their mailboxes. To keep my spirits up, I was eating a double scoop of Belgian cream.
That’s when I “ran” (I could not have been strolling slower, honestly. Looking around halfheartedly for mailboxes) into Disciplined Friend.
Like all Disciplined Friends I have, he has an irrepressible urge to downplay his own achievements and to remind you of how many times he slacked and didn’t run, lift weights, or do yoga. Depending on which disciplined friend it is.
Disciplined Friend was in his running gear, and he was cooling down. So we had a little chat.
I confessed to him that whenever he posted his run on Facebook, it inspired me.
From what I hear that is an atypical response to workout updates.
There’s even a meme:
“Unless you find a dead body on your morning run, I don’t want to know about it.”
I have that with family updates.
Unless we’re talking life or death situations, or photos of your cat, I would much rather know if you worked out.
So I told him that I sometimes wished he would text me, to announce that he would go running. It would be crucial that he did this before he went, not after.
And then I would pause writing my lengthy blog posts, postpone calling creditcard companies, and do an amazing one hour super-intensive yoga session, that totally transformed my body and my life.
And I would do that three to four times a week.
And it would be amaaaayzing.
“And then of course I think: There’s an app for that,” I concluded my story.
I quickly started licking my ice cream all the way around because it was really hot and I couldn’t afford having a conversation.
I saw the letter in my hand already contained ice cream stains as well.
We said our goodbyes, I found a mailbox, cleaned my studio, taught my classes, and sat myself down for my last hour of the day, which is sacred time. I clear out my running diary, go through all the notes of that day, transfer them to my diary or notebooks and cross off all the pages that don’t contain relevant information anymore.
I could see where I had “lost” my resolution to do yoga: on days when I already have six hours of designated work, I can’t afford writing a three hour blog post and then expect to do an hour of yoga as well.
But also; the eating.
It’s not that I can’t have an ice cream, but I knew I was slipping back into my habit of needing food in order to make myself keep up with everything I have to do. I use food as fuel. Whereas when I’m writing? Journaling? Taking a personal development training? I can go up to seven hours without needing food, water or Wifi.
So Monday and Tuesday are my most challenging days in terms of self-care but they also set me up for the rest of the week. If I don’t do yoga then, I don’t do it the rest of the week either.
Same goes for snacking.
If I drop my “diet” of three times a day all you can eat, in favor of Belgian ice cream on Tuesday afternoons, I will easily slip into eating  whatever crosses my path, twenty-four seven.
And I thought of my ideal body, my ideal lifestyle, and that every year for the last decade I had slipped away further. I have a photo in bikini top and jeans, from my 40th birthday. I vividly remember having it taken and thinking:
“Hmmm… I can’t believe I still fit into these pants. I’m way heavier than I want to be. But my belly looks nice. I hope this photo inspires me to take the extra pounds off.”
That was five years and eight kilos ago.
And then, like a lightning rod, it struck me. A powerful vision of exactly the way I want my body to be.
Lean.
Bendy.
Professional.
It was as if my two ideal bodies, those of porn star Stoya and of escort Avery Moore  mixed together with a new vision of Who I Wanted To Be, the second half of my life.
I wanted their photo model, bendy, beautiful pale bodies. What was different from all the resolutions I had before, was that I no longer felt resistant to work for it. For the first time in my life I saw my body as a commodity, something that could pay the bills.
Which isn’t even that far off considering I am a yoga teacher, and the only offers I have gotten as a writer is to pose half nude or fully nude.
In “exchange for free publicity”.
I don’t know why I put quotation marks there, since it means exactly what it says.  I said no, or hell no, or fuck no, but I do acknowledge that a writer with a killer body is definitely more newsworthy than a middle aged woman struggling to keep the pounds off.
It was clear to me that my decision to commit to this daily blog, and thereby get serious with my writing, could only be followed by a decision to be just that driven in getting the sex worker body to match it.
I wonder if there’s an app for that.

{ written in two hours and fifteen minutes, including editing. Now off to yoga! }

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I write diary entries like the one above, I write about Mistresshood and I post videos of my course
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<3LSH
An Unexamined Life is Not Worth Living

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ik heb net mijn dagboek De Candystop online gezet

“Getergd door een rits onduidelijke medische klachten, besluit Lauren geen suiker meer te eten, geen Chardonnay meer te nemen, en geen latte macchiato’s meer te drinken. Na een paar weken is ze zo apathisch dat ze zelfs vergeet te masturberen. Tot een jonge Marokkaanse god op tv verschijnt die tegen Lauren zegt; “LauRRRen! WakkeRRR woRRRden! Ik ben ook schRRRijveRRR en ik heb ook een leuk leven!” Dat is zo. Sam doet de vier s’en. Hij schrijft, hij sport, hij sekst en hij slaapt. Ineens weet Lauren nog steeds niet waar het naartoe moet met haar leven, maar ze is wel klaarwakker. Zeker als ze erachter komt, dat Sam binnen een week een optreden geeft bij haar om de hoek. Sam doet haar denken aan een verboden relatie met haar leerling, iets waar ze gemengde gevoelens over heeft. Sam wil die best met haar onderzoeken, maar hij vraag een prijs…”
De Candystop

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Mango                                 €15
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