I can't quite believe that it's May next week. Can you? It seems like only moments ago that Santa ho-ho-ho'd his way down the chimney and emptied his sack all over the floor before sodding off and leaving me slightly more rotund than I had hoped for. You heard it here first: Santa is a fat-enabling whore.
So here we are: the clocks have boogied on forward and Spring has introduced us to all its optimistic splendour: mild warmth, lighter evenings and the promise of a cheaper electricity bill next quarter. It's enough to make you slap your arse twice like a frugal recession-ista, which I am not, according to my credit card bill. I'm just pleased that Winter is firmly out of the way. It was quite the disappointment in terms of the socially crippling snow that I find myself longing for as soon as November rolls around. All I want is to wake up to a good eight inches (of snow, you big pervert), find out that life has been cancelled for a few days and bunker on down with an endless supply of tea, hot buttery toast, Netflix and self-chill. But no. Jack Frost and the weather Gods obviously didn't get the memo. Bastards.
As I write, I am almost afraid to fart in case it speeds up time and I suddenly find myself in October. Stranger things have happened and to be honest I need the time. I have resolutions that I need to achieve. I know that some people think that New Years resolutions are a big pile of horse shit, but I'm not one of them. Without wanting to come across as schmaltzy, I like the newness of the New Year. A clean slate, a fresh beginning. This is particularly good after a month where I've consumed an artery-troubling amount of 'empty' calories in the name of that slut Santa.
This leads to my resolutions. I only really make one. The same one each year, in fact, over and over again. In sum: stop being a fat knacker. There are other supplementary resolutions that feed into this overall aim. Namely, drink less booze and spend less / save more money. My own toxic trio of unachievable aims. They're all mutually dependant on each other: spending less money on alcohol and pizza will make me less fat, allow my liver to regenerate and result in shrunken love handles/bitch tit combo. I start the year motivated and buoyant and yet, by December 31st, I find myself inhaling hot sausage rolls and festive napkins as an entirely appropriate response to the bailiffs banging on the door demanding to speak to Fatty Bum Bum.
This year is going to be different. And yes, I may have said that before (most years in fact), but it's true. If you're interested as to how it's going, then so far, so good. Well, perhaps not 'good' - maybe 'okay' would be a better appraisal. Could do better, etc. Overall, I'm a stone down which is pleasing, but at one point, I was two stones down. What happened? The Easter Bunny happened. The little bastard. I hope it gets myxomatosis. And this is what pisses me off about my ever yo-yo-ing weight. It takes three months to lose two stones and a fortnight to put half of it back on. I only have to look at a Crunchie and my ankles thicken. It makes no sense. Recently I got up, weighed myself and then (too much information alert) sat on the loo and did my business. Quite a lot of business actually. That much business, I was convinced that I had easily parted with another half a stone. I jumped back on the scales and was filled with a self-loathing that Roland from Grange Hill could only dream about as the terrible news relayed itself to me. I actually put on two pounds, which is, as far as I'm concerned, medically impossible. Yet I achieved it. Yay!
Over the years, I've tried various diets with varying degrees of success: Atkins gave me bad breath and mood swings, Slimfast wasn't fast enough, fat clubs made me realise that misery does love company and when it comes to my chub-chub, I'm quite the happy loner. I once agreed to do a grapefruit based diet only to find that I cannot stand grapefruit. I've had fat-blocking tablets from the doctor and then shit myself in Tesco while wearing beige shorts. I've used MyFitnessPal, but then found myself conveniently forgetting to add in the nine chocolate digestive biscuits that I scoffed while tidying the kitchen. Then I deleted the app out of spite. I once spent a tenner on a Paul McKenna book that promised to make me thin. It didn't.
This year, I've been flirting with the 5:2 diet. Eat what you like for five days and then fast for two. The five days are easy-peasy, lemon (drizzle cake) squeezy. The two days of abstinence are a different story. Skipping breakfast isn't difficult but drinking black coffee is. And that's what I spend my days doing - drinking strong black coffee that makes me feel slightly nauseous. By the time I get home from work, I could happily gnaw my left hand off. I find myself clambering into bed at six pm, hating all of humanity and longing for unconsciousness to come along and escort me to six am, when I can get up and eat like a normal person who likes a little beer from time to time. In the meantime, I exercise like a demon, all the time telling myself that my profuse sweating is simply the fat crying. I'm doing my ten thousand steps a day, I go to spin classes religiously and most days start with a kitchen disco while I brew my coffee. You'd think that twerking alone would shrink my recalcitrant flab. But alas, no.
But I will get there. I appreciate that I'm not the fattest porker in the sty, but at the same time, there's plenty of me to go round. More than I'd like. I'm not interested in having a six pack or those lines that go from the hips to the bits. I mean, it'd be nice and everything, but much like religion or voting Tory, it's just not for me. It just grinds my gears that we can put a man on the moon and develop a buttery spread that's good for the heart and lowering cholesterol but we can't devise a beer that makes us lose FOURTEEN STONE IN A DAAAAAAY!