So I do realize how highly unfashionable and politically incorrect it is these days to mention wanting to lose weight, and that we should all proudly flaunt our lardiness as an expression of our inner confidence and contentment, but I have a very good reason for going on a diet.
It’s not for some vacuous reason like I think I’ll look more beautiful, or because I aspire to the sylph-like proportions of catwalk models or Disney princesses; or even because as winter approaches, at some point I need to get back into my skinny jeans.
It’s simply because in two weeks time I head back to the UK for what will be a marathon event of gluttony with family and friends, as well as some solitary confinement with my father who remains in denial about his alcoholism. Frankly, I’m bloody terrified I won’t fit into my Emirates seat on the flight back.
It’s not like I want to drop anything stupid like an extra tyre; a measly 2kgs will suffice.
How hard can it be? Stupid, naïve-me thought, (was it only) three weeks ago.
You see, I’m not normally THAT vain about my body or weight. I eat healthily, generally – well, apart from at the weekends or when I’m REALLY hungry or hungover. I also try and fit in exercise when there’s absolutely nothing else to do.
And I’ve finally come to terms with the fact that as you age, your weight increases at an unnatural and unfair rate, disproportionately to how much your body consumes. I’ve managed to ignore those extra kilos that menopause has unjustly thrown my way without getting my big-girl knickers in a complete twist.
But everyone has a line, and I’m over mine now, and I haven’t so much as sniffed a steak and kidney pie yet.
And I know that if I cross any further over my line, it will be a slippery slope towards Weightwatchers, Spanx and the plus-size floor of Myer.
The problem is… dieting is just so fucking soul-destroying-ingly boring.
It’s not like I didn’t do my research before I started denying every aspect of happiness in my life. I read all the books and blog posts about how to go about a diet, sensibly, and came to the conclusion that the only way to really lose weight was by eating less food.
It made sense on paper, but as biologically logical as it sounds, my body refuses to play the game. It has reacted to its sudden reduction in calories as a personal attack on it and the fact that I’m MAKING IT RUN, too, was undeniably the final straw.
You see, over the past three weeks, I have made healthier food choices: I have halved the amount of expensive, sugary cereal I normally inhale in the morning, I’ve given up red meat and stopped drinking alcohol three days a week. I have either run or swam on alternate days; or done both on days I’ve needed to clear my brain of Kurt stress.
Yet, in spite of all this pain I have gained 500g.
And this, ladies, is the point where we all fail. Days like these, when you hop on the scales full of hope, only to feel as disappointed as you did when Abbott survived the Lib Spill, inspire failure, not success.
They become FUCK IT! days where the local bakery becomes your safe zone again.
Because, mathematically speaking, less calories + exercise (should, by rights) = weight loss.
So it’s either the jungle for a month or a bean and rice diet, because if Merv Hughes can do it, so can I.
If you found this post vaguely entertaining, come and share more laughs at my expense on either my Facebook (www.facebook.com/mymidlifemayhem), Twitter (@louisasimmonds) or Instagram (Louisa Simmonds) pages. And by the way, it’s #celebfreddie all the way.