Tuesday, 12 January 2010

New Years Resolutions No.1: Lose Weight. Again.

Lose weight. Yes, that old chestnut. If someone (I’m thinking Steven Spielberg, James Cameron, or Madge, seeing as though she can direct moooooovies these days) asked me who should play me in a film about my life, then I’d probably plump for Oprah Winfrey. Not because of my propensity for fabulous tanning, talk show-empathy or marvellous business acumen. Oh no. I think she’d be perfect to tackle the role due to the similarities in our battle with the old flab. And if Oprah's not available, then Chunk from The Goonies will do.

If I was to list my talents - or at least the things that I am good at - then putting on weight, losing it and then putting it all back on again would probably be somewhere towards the top. Take last year for example. Weight-wise, I was doing quite well up until November. I’d been out of work since the August and was regularly going to the gym and eating healthy meals that would make Gillian McKeith’s unmentionables tingle. Then I got a cold. Or did I? Was I just hungover? Perhaps I sneezed a couple of times and felt a bit crappy for half an hour. Either way, I took solace in the age old remedy, which instructs folk to feed a cold, starve a fever. And feed it I did. I gave it what it wanted: Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food, meat pies and mash, sausage and mash, mash and mash, sandwiches and crisps, pizzas, lots of things made by Ginsters and takeaways in every available incarnation. I even tried to flush my cold out with red wine. And beer. Turns out it was quite a demanding cold. Next thing you know, my ‘cold’ has kindly left the building – like hurrah, etc – but just to avoid any sudden relapse, I decide to continue with my remedy, justifying it on a level of delusion not seen since I last claimed to be straight. In my head it was like continuing with your antibiotics after the infection has cleared up. I was finishing the course, etc. Suddenly Christmas was in sight so in the name of Baby Jesus I did my rightful Christian duty and partook in every available calorie at my disposal.

Shockingly, 2010 finds me porky of waist. Thankfully, I’m not in Wonga Man’s league, but I avoid the mirror at all costs and find myself recoiling in horror if anyone accidently fondles either of my love handles as they attempt to clamber past. There was something on the news recently about obesity being the new cancer. Like, hoooooray, etc! As the newsreader spoke, the camera panned to a random high street where the headless torsos of a multitude of fatties wearing horrible clothes clumsily huffed by. I suddenly found myself worried that one day soon, I will watch a similar item and recognise my own voluptuous form wobbling by before falling over a tramp. Or something. That’s when I spat out my sixty ninth Quality Street of the day and made my number one resolution for 2010.

Depressingly, this has been my main goal for the last, what? Twenty years? Fuck and bugger. I’m not going to join a fat club or give myself a weight goal. Nor am I going back to the doctors to get tablets that make me accidentally shit my pants whilst bending down to pick up economy cheese in Tescos. I would just like to get to next New Year and not see ‘LOSE FIVE STONE AND THREE CHINS’ at the top of my resolutions list. I want to be able to buy trousers and not go straight to the back of the rack or sigh wearily as I discover that the shop doesn’t cater for my size. I want to be able to take off my clothes and not find that they have scarred me. I no longer want my shadow to scare children or domestic animals.

Wish me luck, good people.
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