I have slumped into a deep depression because my diet isn’t working.
I have cut out sugar and a lot of booze and snacks and I’m not eating the kids leftover tea or any patisserie and I ate NO sweeties or chocolates out of the Hallowe’en trick or treaters bowl AT ALL. I have been taking moderate exercise. And yet some mornings I am still the weight that made me do a little scream at the end of August and vow to go on a diet. My 2003 Topshop wide leg flannel trousers simply will not do up. And they fit okay back in March.
It’s just this unshiftable 1/2 a stone that just won’t budge. It’s my age. I know it! It’s 35, that age when suddenly the things that used to work don’t any more and suddenly you have to eat basically nothing and drink nothing and work out for two hours, four times a week in order to be the weight you want to be.
I keep thinking about an interview I saw once with Gwyneth Paltrow where she went “I was so chubby after I had [the boy… whatever his name is: Noah?] and I couldn’t shift it! So I went to Tracy Anderson and it was like wow! I lost all the weight!” Yes, by working out until she was fucking sick. Oh yes and also by being mostly vegan. And not really drinking.
Fuck!!! Fuck this shit.
Most of all, I took delivery recently of my absolutely excellent new clothes from Sezane and although it’s not like the jeans don’t fit at all, I just loathe and despise the way my stomach bunches around the waistband. It’s got to go! It’s me or the muffin top! But how! Where?! My morale is at rock bottom. I feel like if I eat any less I’ll pass out or kill someone or just, like, snap and go insane and shoot up my local bakery.
What I’m secretly hoping is that my body is clinging on to weight because it is somehow scared that I am starving myself and is laying down reserves for winter. Ha! Fat chance. Scuse the pun.
Anyway, I’m going spinning on Thursday. If I were you, I would avoid all the Greggs in the NW5 area.