“Your BMI is 33.6, which means you are in the very overweight or obese category. Losing weight would make a big difference to your health – you might want to speak to your GP about the best way to do this.”
‘Inevitable’ is the only word really – middle-aged, middle-class (rarely gets off butt) and ‘middle’-sized (according to someone, size 16 UK is the ‘average’ dress size in Britain, which would be good if I wasn’t a couple of inches off the lowest percentile on the height scale). After losing over 3 st in 2005, I have managed to put back on most of it. Not funny. Having moved down 4 dress sizes I am now on my second one back up.
I have no real incentive to lose weight, to be honest: neither my job nor any of my relationships actually demand me being any particular shape or size: my face is a bigger obstacle to a modelling career and none of my relationships require any ‘taking off of kit’ in anyway – I don’t even have a swimming partner.
There are reasons I would like to be thinner: clothes designed to be worn by walking mannequins look shite on even slightly curvy bods; smoking, drinking and being over-weight is a recipe for a health disaster which will equally ‘ineveitably’ lead in to a hospitalisation which will certainly curtail smoking and drinking (not having that !) and finally, can I really attend a Bon Jovi concert in two months time spilling out of large size 14 jeans? No, rather not.
But the truth is my face is turning into a squashed-egg shape, well, a football actually. And the ex has apparently lost his over-pregnant tummy. And all those half-decent trousers and tops that I liked so much from last summer are going to have to be binned. And I’ll have to go back to BHS and buy new – and bigger – clothes. And that is what this is really all about. I hate buying clothes.
I had to buy half a new wardrobe just a couple of months ago. It was agony. Every bit of it. Choosing shapes, styles and colours. Then the vilest bit – trying them on. I avoid getting dressed on the best of days – if I didn’t have a job, and worked at home, I’d live in dual purpose pjs. I hate getting dressed. The physical act of it. Having to do it everyday. I am ‘getting-changed’ phobic. This is why I never participate in anything which requires ‘getting changed’ – swimming especially, but even bowling, which only requires a shoe change, makes me shudder. I would rather dig ditches than change my clothes. In fact, this afternoon I am going to ‘turn the borders over’ with a shiny new garden fork which E. is buying from Tesco as I write. The only bit I am not looking forward to is taking off my nightie and replacing it with some trackies and a top.
So the whole house has been cleared out and spring-cleaned. I have removed all the ‘crap’ from every cupboard and even the car boot has been turned out. (This is a psychological stream-lining, I imagine.) Not only have the fridge, freezer and larder been cleared of calories but I have made a batch of home-made burgers (delicious, even though I do say so myself) and 2 litres of home-made lemonade (15 kcal per average glass) now sits in an old Tesco bottle (relabelled ‘Mum’s with a mushroom logo, of course). I have re-organised the book shelves, and have put all school-only books and journals in the car to take to school. This afternoon the great garden clear-out begins. The redundant summer house has already been replaced with neat, new turf.
Day 4. 2 lbs lost already. The borders await me.
This post was first published on April 4th 2013