I’ve never been one to bother too much about my weight, I have been a size 14 most of my adult life, and despite the odd insecurity about bingo wings and saddle bags I generally enjoy my curves and can’t even really imagine myself as a size 10. I think this is fine, as it’s pretty much my natural size. I don’t really diet or exercise, I drink wine and eat a lot of chocolate, but where possible try and eat healthily around these discrepancies so that I don’t become a serious lardy. Until now that is…
Over the course of this year, I think my weight has gone up by about a stone. I say I think, as I don’t really weigh myself, but some of last summer’s frocks and bikinis certainly don’t fit me anymore, so there has definitely been some filling out. I blame the freelance world of moving from bedroom to living room to work rather than missioning it into central London, and where tea, toast and biscuits are a mere few steps away rather than the trot to the canteen. Whatever the reason, the weight has crept on and I’m not happy about it.
And so, action has to be taken…bummer. I hate having to actually make an effort to lose weight; all of those little treats seem all the more desirable and resisting them all the more difficult. However, if I want to wear those frocks before the summers out and feel remotely hot in a bikini then the hard work starts here.
Farewell cakes, ice creams and vino blanco, it’s been nice knowing you, maybe I will come and visit again in a few months, until then I’m off to burn some of your beautiful calories away – wish me luck!