As my darling boyfriend, JT, put it: “The booti sisters are doing it for themselves!”
The booti family has a long history of food-loving. Nanna booti revealed about a decade ago how papa booti would devour an entire tub of ice-cream in one sitting as a lad. In our early high school years, mini booti and myself would compete to see who could eat more than papa booti (two young girls battling a grown man in the food-eating department… entertaining stuff – I believe I still hold the record of most plates of fettucine carbonara eaten in one sitting in the booti household – four). Poor lil’ mama booti would watch in shock as her growing girls polished off Arnotts Assorted Family Packs in two afternoons – poor skinny thing – just wanted a shortbread to dip in her coffee. She learnt the hard way: you want to eat in the booti house, you eat quick.
Mama booti tried everything. She hid the treats. We snuffed ’em out (sorry, mama, but it takes more than the back of the cupboard :P). She fed us up with fruit and vegies. We ate them… as well as everything else in sight. She gave us about one canteen lunch a month. We snuck money from our piggy banks (or her wallet, as I dared admit a few years ago) to treat ourselves to sausage rolls, pies, toffee apples, musk sticks, licorice, Paddle Pops; all the usual suspects. When we begged for dessert, she told us to have fruit. She served up salad or cooked vegies with every meal. She really did try. She was just up against a force so strong, our tiny lil’ mama booti didn’t stand a chance. The booti sisters were growing chicas with appetites so ravenous the mere discussion of food brought saliva to their mouths and sent them running for the cupboard, eyes skimming the shelves for hints of biscuit, choccie and chippie packets.
While we were young, our stomachs seemed like bottomless pits. I was a rake, even borderline gawky – putting on weight wasn’t even a thought. The only thought was EAT EAT EAT EAT.
Then I stopped exercising. Went from three intense ballet classes a week to zilch. But I kept eating. Kept bragging about how much I could eat. Started hitting up the local mall before school, Hungry Jacks or the canteen every lunchtime and even getting potato gems most afternoons. Mama booti would make me lunch (always had TWO sandwiches – devon and sauce on white breadich was a big favourite – no wonder I was STARVING – soooo high gi!) and I’d eat it… plus extras. The weight started creeping on, but I didn’t even realise. By the end of Year 12 I was two sizes bigger than I am now.
Then uni hit. Midnight snacks – every night – consisted of toasted sandwiches. Average dinner – sausage rolls or a pie. I was too scared to cook, too scared to even boil water, too scared to ask for help. Plus, I discovered beer. With my beer gut in full swing, I pumped on even more weight. Another 10 kilos at least.
I’d go home for Christmas and mini booti and I would tan up, drop a few kilos (mucking about in sunny Wagga in the pool and walking around the lake), but still eat up a festive storm. Christmas was insane. I’d be absolutely stuffed by 8am having already demolished a massive brekkie, Darrell Lea nougat pudding and candy canes… then mini booti and I would turn our attention to the platters mama booti was preparing for our influx of rellies. “Hands out of it!” she’d cry. “The guests aren’t here for another hour!” At least one massive pack of chips and packet of nuts would be smashed before they arrived. Let’s not even go into the rest of the day, let’s go straight to bed-time when I am feeling so full, so sick I can barely move. Yet nothing would stop me from eating… if there was food in the house, I wanted it.
So.
The booti history with food isn’t pretty. That’s only a teenie-tiny snippet. The real truth makes me want to laugh, cry and brag all at once. I’m just so effing proud of the entire booti family for getting their shiza together to do something about it.
Papa booti has always been an athletic bugger so he’s still walking up a storm and getting about on the school farm (aren’t you, sexy legs?), mama booti is doing her best (if the women in her office would stop offering her chocolate bars) and mini booti… she’s my little pride and joy. She’s up to Week 2 of Fat Fighters and loving it. She’s gyming it, texting and calling me to talk FF, and really throwing herself into the whole experience. V. proud.
Love to all my booti fam xxxx
PS: I forgot to mention my theory throughout high school regarding my stomach. To try to explain my attempt to smash three pieces of lasagne then feel like an entire plate of pasta 10 mins later, I came up with this: my stomach has compartments. “Mama booti, my lasagne compartment is full. If you gave me any more lasagne right now, I’d vomit… but my pasta compartment is empty so send it my way… and don’t even get me started on my dessert compartment – I could smash an extire choccie Bavarian right now.”
Sickening, isn’t it?
This is why Core is so fantastic. It has taught me to eat slowly, actually think about whether I am hungry or just bored, bragging, sad, happy, thirsty etc, and it’s surprising how quickly I get full these days. Speaking of compartments… my H20 compartment needs a refill.
The Fat Fighters Chronicles 