Back at the start of the summer we promised you our Cellulite Diaries. Yeah. Well. I am sorry to have to report this, but: we suck. We completely and utterly suck. Our diets are full of salted caramel, and our thighs are full of, well. Here’s a glimpse of where we got to before the summer kicked our asses, then later we’ll fill you in on the full FAIL.
After a poor start, during which I left the vital Birch Cellulite Oil in my dad’s bathroom for a week, I have finally kicked my ass into cellulite fighting form. Discussing the challenge with my great friend Mrs Trefusis, she tells me:
“I once managed to eliminate my cellulite”
“I completely gave up drinking and ran five miles every day without fail”.
“Oh”. I am terribly disappointed.
“It was totally unsustainable”.
I am not willing to go to such extreme lengths. I barely run for a bus if I can help it and the idea of a dry August terrifies me worse than an arable farmers convention. I like to view my holidays through a benevolent haze of rosé. I will do my best, however.
Four days trying to finish my book in a strange town with no broadband. I place my body brush on the desk behind me, and every time I speculatively search the ether for unsecured wifi networks, I also pick up my body brush and give my legs a good scrub. It makes me feel purposeful.
I relocate the oil and apply it twice daily. I am not entirely sure about the oil. It’s very oily. I spill it on sheets, towels, and the carpet of the rented flat. It doesn’t make my skin tingle like, say Shiseido Body Creator. I persist anyway. If The Leg Room approves, I believe. The Leg Room is my gospel.
I eat loads of vegetables. Well, some vegetables. Well, when I have cake I make sure it’s carrot cake. I also take Conjugated Linoleic Acid capsules. Back in the day when I was thin and mental I used to swear by these for their infinitely tiny alleged fat burning and slight appetite suppressant effect. Now? Well. They aren’t suppressing my appetite but they make me feel like I’m doing something.
I manage not to drink alcohol for 4 days. My liver thanks me, even if my skin seems indifferent.
On my return to Belgium I also look out the weapon of torture in my cupboard that I have been ignoring. The Jeanne Piaubert spiky massaging tool of death. I apply the oily oil and rub away at my thighs with it two rubbery hedgehogs. It’s hilarious, but not painful enough to suggest it’s working. My thighs go slightly red.
And is any of it working? Well. If you’d asked me even two days ago I would have laughed darkly in your face whilst searching your pockets for chocolate. Pah. Not the slightest shifting in my dimples, no improved skin tone, naaaathing. But now, and this might be pure delusion, I feel like there’s a tiny improvement in the way the skin on my thighs is looking. Really tiny, blink and you’d miss it tiny. But just enough to keep me brushing and oiling, for now.
M: So, E. Someone was asking about that Vichy Cellu-Destock the Easter Bunny brought you.
E: Hmmm. It was shite. SHITE.
M: Oh dear. In what way?
E: Not only did it have no discernible effect, it didn’t even make me BELIEVE it was having an effect.
M: Was it nice to put on?
E: No, it sat on the surface of my bumpy skin like snail goo, mocking me. It’s just green snail slime.
M: And we all know how that goes. One minute you’re putting snail goo on your legs, the next you “accidentally” break the jar.
E: See, I liked the previous Vichy cellulite nonsense cream. But this one? PAH. Maybe my legs have just become more resistant in the last year?
M: Probably. Or maybe the Vichy people are tarnishing their good name (splutter) with inferior products. See what I did there? Historical joke. You don’t get those on your proper regular beauty blog.
E: Yup. It’s the Maréchal Pétain of creams. Without the moustache.
M: In a nice friendly rebranded green tube. So, did it “accidentally” find its way into the bin then?
E: Nah. It’s still in the cupboard, but it fills me with indifference. I won’t be doing lunges in skimpy black pants any time soon.
M: I notice she has no neck in that picture. You don’t have neck cellulite, do you?
E: No! I don’t think so. I don’t know. Argh! Now you’re making me paranoid. I think I have chin cellulite.
M: Ha. There’s no such thing, you nutjob.
E: Well if there was, I wouldn’t be putting Vichy Cellu-Destock on mine.
It’s summer, when people wear floral playsuits with no sense of irony and when Facegoop’s fancy turns to .. ice cream. And where there’s ice cream, there are wobbly thighs. So for the next few weeks we’ll be bringing you an epic follow up to the Water Diaries, the Cellulite Diaries. Be afraid, be very afraid.
Cellulite. I haz it. I have had it ever since I stopped doing 5 hours of ballet a week and started to eat Nachos for breakfast. I am plagued by terrible circulation, a strong desire for tasty salted pork parts, and a deep rooted hatred of exercise. I have recently instituted a daily ice cream break in my studio for the summer months. This has led me to:
The Vital Statistics:
Thigh circumference: 25. 5 inches.
Calf circumference : 17.5 inches.
Number of ridiculous lotions tried: too many to recall.
Number of ridiculous lotions that were unpleasantly sticky: all of them.
Number of giant bruises from cycling: 7
Amount of cellulite dislodged: non-existent.
Low. Looking at the statistics above, I realize just one of my thighs is the same size as other people’s WAISTS. Not even freaky people’s waists. Just, people.
I know my legs will not be replaced by ones worthy of an antelope overnight, or, indeed, ever. In fact a doctor recently told me I was bow-legged, which left a nice happy song in my heart. Thanks, doc.
I’d just like to be able to wear an above-the-knee skirt in the sweltering heat of Paris this summer. DO YOU HEAR ME, CELLULITE GODS??? IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK?
Body brushing: E has talked me into this. She says it works if you do it obsessively, so I have, like an obedient, distraught puppy, started brushing myself every morning before my shower. It makes me feel rather like a pony being given his daily cleanse, minus the strong pony odour. Oddly comforting. And what do you know? It works. My skin is much softer, and possibly even stronger. Win.
Weleda Birch Cellulite Oil. It’s delightfully warming and the legologist says it works. It is backed up by some impressive and wonderfully germanic statistics. After 28 days, visible improvement of skin structure in 85% of cases, 20-25% increase in microcirculation, and a measurable thigh loss of 3.95 cms. This is getting slathered onto the drumsticks every evening, and my legs feel light, refreshed and hydrated afterwards. The boyfriend says I smell of ginger. Whatevs. The Oil is here to stay.
The Bicycle. My two wheeled love. I cycle every day but usually only for relatively short trips. I am going to make the most of the long, light, balmy (cough cough) Scottish summer and increase the number of 30 minute trips. Oh yes I am. Yes I am yes I am yes I AM.
Phew, that was tiring. Pass me an ice cream, E?
M and I bonded early on over our love of cellulite snake oil, pants with outlandish shrinking claims, spiked rollers to squish our thighs into submission. I love all that stuff. I’ve had hatchet faced Breton women pummel my thighs with a power hose, been wrapped in all manner of gloop, spent ages wobbling on a Power Plate.
No more. Now I have cellulite AND I’m poor. I don’t know if I’ll have to wear a swimming costume in the Isle of Wight in August, but I fear there’s a strong possibility, and my thighs are‚ well. They’ve seen better days. I try not to look. I’m typing this eating salted caramel chocolate which tells you everything you need to know about my diet. My only exercise is walking the dog, and when I say ‘walking’, I mean ‘sitting on a bench while the dog unearths old kebabs and condoms in the park’.
The vital statistics
Thigh circumference: 22 inches
(I’m not measuring my calves because I know there’s no way in hell I’ll be putting cellulite potions on them. They’re fine. They’re, you know, calf sized) .
Number of potions tried: Infinity plus
Number of bruises from drunken incidents: loads. Not sure. At least 5 big ones.
Amount of cellulite dislodged: At the moment I’m operating at a net gain of cellulite of 12 cm3 per annum.
The rot must stop.
Since I won’t be exercising or eating less, I don’t really have any expectations, but if I can get my thighs a little smoother and less, uh, GROSS, that would be great. If I can replace my body and face with those of Christy Turlington, so much the better.
Trusty cheapo body brush - it’s easy, it feels like it’s doing something, and skin definitely feels softer after use.
Weleda Birch Cellulite Oil – M was impressed so I bought some. And what’s good enough for the Legologist is definitely good enough for me. I worship that woman. I have only used a couple of times. It’s, well, oily, but there’s a sort of tightening sensation that seems promising.
For the rest, well. I’ll try and drink some water and eat some vegetables. Can’t say fairer than that.
So here goes nothing: Cellulite Plan 2010 is go. It can’t be as bad as The Water Diaries, right?
Weleda Birch Cellulite Oil, £12.10
Vintage Falcon bicycle as pictured above in gratuitous bike porn pic, get your hands off my bike, bitch.