It took me an eternity to get dressed for work yesterday. Everything I tried on looked TERRIBLE and was discarded into a growing heap on my bed. I’d been meaning to get to work early, but there was no way that was happening as the 30-minute mark and a wardrobe decision STILL hadn’t been made.
I’m blaming this sudden hatred of all my clothes and my appearance in them on PMT … and not exercising like a demon … but eating like one.
When I was battling to cope with the distress of my marriage break-up I went for lots of walks up very big hills. It’s impossible to stay bleak when you’re walking up very big hills because not enough oxygen is getting to your brain. (Actually, it’s because all the endorphins are kicking in.)
Since I became a bliss bunny I haven’t been walking quite so much. Too busy trekking to the boondocks to visit DD. And the gym workouts have been patchy over the school holidays. There’s also been far too much pizza and other evil takeaway.
So I’ve started to get a little more squishy.
Previously I’d just go into denial about it, as documented in a blog from two years ago called “Fat Clothes”:
There’s this clever little trick my subconcious plays when I pork up. It doesn’t announce none of your clothes fit you Alana, you’re getting fat … no, it simply decides everything in my wardrobe is terribly unfashionable. Short skirts are so last year, no-one wears fitted tops any more and it’s way too hot for denim …
It insists long, flowing tops are the hot new thing. It berates me for not having more of them when they’re so fabulous. The same goes for leggings and elasticised skirts – much more stylish than fitted pants.
Other little subterfuges are decreeing that sleeveless tops are a skin-cancer risk, XL T-shirts drape better and voluminous beach cover-ups are tres cool.
But this time there’s no subterfuge. I’m just cross at myself. I was doing so well, getting so fit, being so healthy, but I’ve let it bloody slide.
So I took salads to work for breakfast and lunch and ground my way through them. Soooooo boring. And I drove my car to work and parked it in a one-hour zone, which meant running up and down three flights of stairs every 90 minutes to check my tyres hadn’t been marked. Cue wheezing.
I’d like to say I felt virtuous last night, but I just felt hungry. So I ate two Jamie Oliver cumberland sausages with roast potatoes and washed them down with a cider.
There really isn’t any hope for me. But there must be. I really hate being more squishy again.
Song of the day: Olivia Newton John “Physical” (isn’t it funny that I spent my childhood thinking the song was about exercise … actually, I still did until I played the clip just now …)