Week 261- bad bras, baked beans and batteries for the Slendertone...

At what point do you stop blaming pregnancy for not fitting into any of your pre-children clothes?

When they’ve turned one?

When you go back to work?

When they’re out of nappies?

Or when they are in reception class?

I’m going to say the latter.

It is now eight weeks until I get married.

My friend is altering my wedding dress I bought second hand, just adding some sleeves to cover up the ham-hock looking bingo wings.

But I had also very confidently told her that I would be a stone lighter, (at least,) by the time I got married, so suggested there might need to be some serious darts as there is no WAY I’m going to fill the, at that time, snug fitting dress.

That was two months ago, and I haven’t been brave enough to pick it up as I’ve only lost half a pound, and that’s if I’ve been to the loo, take off all my jewellery and breath out before standing on the scales.

Seriously- how do people do it??

I know eat less, move more, blah blah blah.

But I’m moving all the time; even now I’m having a little sofa gig to radio 6 whilst typing.

That’s got to burn off the two bottles of beer and roast dinner I’ve just had, surely.

I know that it’s not cool to go on about wanting to be slimmer, especially if the sum total of what I’m doing to achieve it is just buying a shit load of fad diet books off Amazon.

But, if there’s ever a time when you don’t want to be all, ‘man what  did I look like, who let me wear that?’ it’s on your wedding day, right?

I kick myself for not getting it out the way pre-kids when I didn’t have a stomach like crepe paper and tits that need to be scooped into a bra.

I went wedding underwear shopping in London for a treat and I nearly broke the already stressed bra expert in John Lewis.

Thirty bras later, that’s right, thirty, she eventually strapped me into what looked like a bandage and said, exasperatedly, ‘it’s not pretty, but it does the job.’

I told her I’d been with my boyfriend for over 15 years, to which she shrugged and said, ‘well there you go then.’

Fantastic.

I like to think it’s because I’m a true environmentalist.

I don’t like waste.

So if the kids wont eat it, I will.

All of it. Fish fingers. Chips. Beans. Those squeezy yoghurts that are just like mainlining sugar.

I’d prefer to inhale it all than put it in the bin.

And then have my own tea on top of that, obviously.

The thought of going to the gym makes me want to punch myself in my own face; it smells like the inside of a trainer and I have no idea how to use any of the machines.

In fact the only time I go is when I’m meeting a friend there and then I mainly lie on the floor copying what she’s doing, but not as well, whilst gossiping.

So tomorrow it starts.

Of course.

I’m going to finish the Easter egg that’s been lurking on top of the cupboard, polish off the posh crisps and then develop a newfound sense of self-control over night.

Because in eight weeks I’m going to look better than I have ever looked and about twenty years younger.

And this time I mean business.

I’m not fucking about this time.

Tomorrow I’m buying new batteries for the Slendertone.


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