I know the principles. I’ve done it before. Twice. And each time it worked. But three weeks in - eating chicken, salad, low fat
everything, no sugar everything else, in other words nothing with taste – I stand on the scales and the weight loss in all that time is
four pounds. Although I seem to
have gained back one of those pounds, so grand total: three.
Three.
Three is a not-particularly bad bout of
stomach flu. It’s a diuretic. It’s the difference between pre and
post menstrual. IT IS NOT THREE
WEEKS OF RUDDY CHICKEN.
When I think of all the things I’ve denied
myself: the football mid-match
potato wedges, the pre-match ice cream.
The toast in the morning.
The butter on the toast in the morning. The crumpets, the scones, the tea and biscuits. The
pasta. The pastry. I mean, I have no trouble knowing why I
gain weight, but having cut all that crap out, why isn’t the fat dropping off
me?
It’s not that the science of dieting is all
0% fat Greek yoghurt to me. I know
what to do
– eat less, move more, cut out the carbs, check the fat and sugar content
in foods. I could do it as my
specialist subject on Mastermind.
So I eat the dreary omelettes and walk an hour a day. I cheer myself up (the term is
relative) with a 10 cal jelly. And
yet. The bum remains visible from
space. The muffin top continues to
spill from the top of my ‘fat’ jeans, which in turn cling to my legs like they
got a fright in the drawer.
It’s not the worst thing in the world to be
overweight. I can still go outside
without having to hire a marquee to cover my bulk. My wrinkles are nicely padded, and the second chin is only
visible when I slump on the sofa with the laptop on my stomachs. I look, to a kind person, comfortably
chubby, and to the hater like a
Hallowe’en pumpkin (cos I’m wearing an orange dress), but I can suck that up, and my belly in at the same time. I’m not hiding away in the
Obese Witness Protection Program.
I’m out in the world, large and proud. I can live with this.
But I’d rather not. And so
having taken the measures to eradicate a bit of blubber, why the hell isn’t it
leaving?
Everything else has (kids, husband, youth, thigh-gap. memory, natural hair colour, my credit rating), so what is wrong with the fat? Why doesn’t it go?
I would give up in a heartbeat, and embrace
my curves, but there are two problems with this. One: due to my
appetite for saturated fat, let’s face it – I won’t stay at my current
size. While it’s hard to persuade
the chubb to go, like that last guest at the party who hangs around in the
doorway, chatting, it’s easy peasy to gain more
weight. Fat is like the
people who never invite you to dinner but are only too happy to turn up to your
place when you issue an invitation, and who don’t bring a bottle. So, if I can’t lose the weight when I’m
dieting it stands to reason (reason?
Where is reason in all this craziness?) that if I begin eating like a
‘normal’ American Mid-Westerner again, it’ll pile back on.
But the second reason is the real one behind my search for a waist. Clothes.
I have loads of them. And I love them. They’re hanging on the rail in my
walk-in closet saying; ‘wear me, wear me…’ and I can’t because they don’t ruddy
fit.
So I have this picture in my head of myself wearing the ‘pumpkin’ dress and
looking more like, say a squash or a speciality courgette, with thinnish legs sprouting from the
bottom. Maybe some ankles even. I don’t care about health,
particularly. I don’t care about
having my arse look big in jeans.
What I care about is simply being able to wear my frocks and look… -
well I’d settle for nice.
It’s not too much to ask is it?
So please. Fat. Just Flab Off.
