My Current Obsession

I've been a very good girl these past few weeks, as far as being fit is concerned. I've had zero suppers, run heaps at the stadium and am eating normal portions of food (instead of, um, twice that amount).

But few days ago, I suffered a sports injury - been hobbling around with a sore ankle and had to stop running.

What on earth is going on, you ask? Two words: motivation clothes. This is the name I give to clothes such as the precious Express jeans bought from NYC, champagne-coloured satin cocktail dress from Sydney with a tiny tiny waist and all my clingy Mango tops. Let's face it, they all look gross with a "muffin top" bulge spilling out from the waistline. So, getting in those perfectly are my, um, goals.

Then there's the other kind of motivation clothes: nice running wear in yummy colours. It sounds strange, but I do feel different in them, as compare to running in a ratty old T-shirt and shorts. The "serious" fitness wear makes you want to run faster, run longer - live up to them.

But I have to say the fitness clothes I could find in Singapore are either pricey (because of some allegedly new-age fabric) or unimaginative, or both. Technodrymyass! Feels like I 'm paying more for the swoosh than the actual garment. Anyone knows a good place for such togs?

Next weekend, hopefully I'll be running in the Conrad gym in Hong Kong, coz that's where Boy is doing his Big Shot Shoot. Yeah, and using all of my willpower to stay off its wonderful cuisine. Wish me luck.

Don't Know How She Does It

Last weekend, I spent an afternoon as a mommy imposter. I was carrying SK's three-month old baby in Mango while the real mom shopped for clothes to fit her newly-regained figure. And boy, it was fun. People came up to me and smiled, thinking it was my baby. They must have been wondering: how does she do it - have a child and not sport a hint of mommy-hips?

Ah, but I wasn't the only one faking it. In a way, aren't all glam career moms faking it as well - frantically juggling too many responsibilities and, at the same time, making it look like they're handling it just fine?

Few days ago, I met one of those alluring women you shelf under the "I don't know how she does it" category. An eloquent and chic forty-something woman who has (get this!) eight children, a powerful job that takes her all over the world and the figure of someone who gyms a lot. If she's frazzled by all that her life asks of her, it is not showing.

Eight. Children.

And then you hear of those "damsel-in-distress" types, educated women who quit their jobs after childbirth and, even with a live-in maid, always look harrassed and over-stretched. How come some people handle it so well, or appear to - and others not?

And where do you and I fall, on this spectrum of sisterhood?

My favourite book last year was, incidentally, "I Don't Know How She Does It", by Allison Pearson. It has been called the career mom's version of Bridget Jones' Diary, and rightly so. You get an insider's peek into the funny world of a successful London investment banker, who haplessly tries to balance her work, children, marriage and sniping mother-in-law.

Word is that this best-seller caused scores of moms to quit their jobs when their guilt machines went into over-drive.

SK never read that book, but I figured she fears being called a bad mom much more than being called a bad journalist. She announced, over tea, that she was delaying her return to the world of journalism yet again. Hmm.

I'm Back

"Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the number of moments that take our breath away.'' - Anonymous.

Hey y'all, I'm back. Sorry I've not been writing for ages, thanks to a wonky computer, among other stuff. So this is for Andrea and Rick in Bangkok, and for mates in Sydney and London, who assured me there will be at least five people checking this space frequently to see if I'm alive.

Yes, I'm alive. And yes, Helga, I still eat two dinners. One for when I need to placate a rumbling tummy while rushing to meet a deadline - and whose qualifying criteria is simply that it can be wolfed down in 10 minutes at my desk. Another is a long, late-ish meal of good street food and sparkling conversation, beer optional.

Coming back from the other foodie capital of the world, Sydney, one has to realise that Singapore may not have the same astounding array of "chefy" cuisine starring top-notch produce and cutting-edge technique. It is also a city that believes "BYO" is a license to slug a $30 corkage charge (no kidding) on a $15 bottle.

But what it lacks in sophistication, it more than makes up for in one area - supper! There are more late-night eats than you can count, from yummy snacks to a full-on seafood feast. And they are all served at minimum cost and maximum taste - so not like Sydney, where the sole reason we eat at that ghastly pancake place is because it is the only bloody thing open at 1am.

Ah, but sometimes your favourite thing is also your worst enemy. After five months of hearty street suppers (plus decadent business lunches), I 've gained 3 kilos. You may say 48kg is ok, but the extra weight is in all the wrong places.

Reality hit when I couldn't get into my 24 inch Express jeans last month. Clothes don't lie. So I'm back on the track again, and have this morning promised to eat (gasp!) just two suppers a week.

Aww, c'mon, it is a start. Maybe I'll cut down to once a week, if I can resist chili frog legs at Geylang. Yeah, right. Fat chance.