So last night, Miss12 and I were sitting at the dining room table independently getting our work done in one of those calm and beautiful moments when you know that the planets are aligned.
Beyonce was blasting through the radio and we had to discuss the qualities of God. Not an easy question to answer.
And then an old school friend who used to blow-dry my hair to perfection each Friday in Johannesburg before the great migration posted this on Facebook. That she does love her a good chubba.
Followed by this….a male Chubba she would lust over.
Now I would not have blinked twice normally but on Sunday I was at the most awesome of awesome barmitzvah events that I have had the privilege to attend and the topic of conversation seemed to turn constantly to one gym bunny called James.
I had not been on the premises for even 10 minutes before someone was talking to The Artist and I about James and how James had caused him to lose upwards of 25kg’s. Might have been 30…….
At that stage I wasn’t paying too much attention as I was hungry and there were Portugese chicken livers with fresh sourdough bread to be eaten (I don’t think James would have been so happy with this).
After some lovely merriment and wine we sat down to lunch. It was casual seating so I was positioned next to a woman (very ex-Saffer – nasal tones and all) and then across from someone I really didn’t know. While tucking into some bbq, salad and hot chips (again I sense James might not be pleased) I was forced to listen to what James does to
torture inspire his clients and about the “whatsapp group of people who train with James” say and how people who train with James dob other people who train with James in when they don’t perform properly. I simply could not.
However, now my curiosity was peaked and I started to case the joint and interview people with more information. Here’s how it went.
James it seems is a lean, mean, commando-type machine. James is not a fan of the fat. Not a fan at all. That Chubba up above would have his arse kicked by James. James would certainly not want to cuddle him. He would probably want him to run 50km and eat brown rice and tuna for lunch thereafter. Sans avo and seaweed and soya sauce – in case you were thinking of dressing it up to make it palatable…..
Now after hearing so much about James (he was even mentioned in speeches), like any
stalker normal human being I consulted with Dr Google. But the man seriously has no digital footprint. He’s an internet ghost totally underground. Old school.
But it turns out
James the legend is training a sizeable proportion of the Eastern Suburbs 40+ somethings and getting rather serious results.
I am somewhat envious. But according to a friend she spent the first three months propped up on Nurofen lying on her bed after training sessions. In the same breath she is running 11km’s without too much trouble after not having exercised for 14 years. Which gives me some food for thought. But not. Because I love my food, I just do. There is simply no life without a good chicken caesar salad without bacon and fresh tomato from the Tropicana (with a side of bread and butter – I see James completely dying at this daily lunch order). Defiantly, I directed my friend and dedicated James protege to the marshmallow pit where we were roasting those mofo’s over an open fire like nobodies (certainly not James’) business. I then went in for peach crumble with ice-cream and salted caramel sauce but by that stage I had lost my partner in crime. She was no doubt somewhat wary of getting on the scale at Chez James. (I heard from a friend of a friend of James that a woman had to hand over $50 recently as she had gained weight one week and it was her penance money – no caramel latte’s for you lady!!!!).
But now moving off the topic of James and the search for perfection yadda yadda, I want you to know that I would love The Artist even if he was a Chubba. Now before you get all – well Lauren it’s easy for you to talk because The Artist looks like he works out all day and doesn’t have an ounce of fat on his body – just remember, that I have to love The Artist regardless, even if he was a Chubba. Because The Artist loves me.
So you can rest assured that despite any morbid curiosity I will not be gracing the inner sanctum of Jame’s hall of training/torture and will continue about my merry way with some spin classes and yoga complimented by some chips and wine. And so should you. But in the same breath there is absolutely nothing wrong with joining a cult. Nothing wrong at all.
Love and light.