Let me start this off by stating that I am reasonably happy with my size. I have very little desire to change my eating habits.
But the time has come to acknowledge that quite a few of my clothes are out of the muffin top pile and into the can’t do it up pile. Crap. Comfort eating this year has taken its toll and if I have any hope of trying roller derby for real (which means hot pants), or not being harpooned on the beach this summer, my arse needs to lose some of its gravitational pull.
I have tried lots of low carb diets before, and I can wholeheartedly confirm that these don’t so much make me grumpy, but more homicidal. It’s like having permanent PMT enhanced with extra rage, interdispersed with periods of total universal despair. Suffice to say, I am built to eat carbs.
I suck at diets. And this lack of willpower is only matched by the willpower I previously had when eating nothing. I have some lovely waif-like photos of me in my teens when I was a stick. People joked that if I turned sideways, I’d disappear. I took that as a compliment and dieted some more. But now? Now, I like food. There’s a LOT of food that tastes better than thin feels. I have very few vices; I don’t smoke, I don’t really drink (although I am quite partial to white rum if its been a really bad day), I don’t gamble. I do eat cake and lovely big chipshop chips, I crochet, I game and I skate.
I’m unlikely to become a gym bunny any time soon. I go when I feel guilty enough. But I dislike it. I dislike the air conditioning, the unevolved men who lift weights in packs making homoerotic gestures at each other. I dislike the teeny size zero women who bounce about flicking their hair at people. And I dislike the overly happy personal trainers who use the word ‘buddy’ with wild abandon, oblivious to me twitching at their irritating americanisms. I dislike being sweaty in a room full of other sweaty people who I don’t know and certainly don’t want to share sweaty seats with. And I certainly don’t want to witness just how much you like the gym man in overly tight shorts parading yourself around the cardio area. Ew.
So what does a girl who cries when she’s hungry (and is a little bit scared of going OTT and jumping back on the polo mint diet) and who frankly is going to go swimming and skating way more that the gym do when she needs to shrink a bit?
It seems she joins Slimming World.
They have suckered me in through their success stories (I’ve had several friend tell me about their amazing shrinking bodies) and their promise of eating copious amounts of food and this ‘free food’ stuff. The only issue is the meetings. I’m not keen on actual people at the best of times, but I am going to take a deep breath and arrive at one on Thursday. But all I can think of is this:
I’m going to be told to eat dust. Dust. Dusssst.
Helpfully, a friend of mine nicknamed her club ‘fat f**kers’ and I really hope there are some people there with the same sort of humour because the group thing scares the living daylights light out of me. I am a true teacher and need someone to be naughty in class with. Sadly, my two bestest of best friends are sickeningly thin – one because she breastfeeds her entire family and eats three biscuits per day and the other because she is mental and runs for actual fun (who does that?!). They know who they are, and they are half the woman I am. Literally. So sod the pair of you, I’m off to fatty camp and I shall return with various bits of me looking pert and fabulous (or more likely arrive on your doorstep in a carb deficient haze begging you for cake).