Too many pies

 

 

fatwoman

 

About twice a year I find myself absolutely determined to lose weight; this time I’m going to do it, I will never eat another piece of bread again, blah, blah, blah. I bore my partner rigid with the latest research into how our bodies gain and lose fat, I implore him to join me in my odyssey (he is even larger than me), and announce, pompously, that I’m never going to be this fat again.

I then embark, with almost religious fervour, on a ‘healthy eating and exercise’ plan avoiding bad carbs and not eating after 7pm, etc, etc. I lose about a stone, feel a lot better and then spend the next few weeks and months putting it all back on again and more.

I’m not saying that this latest moment of Absolute Determination won’t end in the same way but I do have an added bit of armoury up my sleeve. One of motivation.

For a couple of years I’ve thought about getting a breast reduction. My norks are massive. Always have been. Once a great asset they are now a hindrance. I look like Ann Widdecombe.

Every day I stand in front of the bathroom mirror while waiting for the shower to warm up and suck my stomach in. I then usually decide that I wouldn’t look that bad if my breasts were only smaller. In other words I think I look much fatter than I actually am purely because of my mammaries. This is almost certainly rubbish.

Biting the bullet on January 2nd this year I went off to the Duchy Hospital and was greeted by a man I can only describe as some sort of God. He looked like Tom Hiddleston’s better looking younger brother. A nurse was called into the room (lest he molest me, so driven with lust was he bound to be), and I was asked to undress. I stood, naked from the waist up, before this demigod while he stared, wordlessly, at my tits which were hanging down somewhere around knee level. ‘You are overweight’,  he said, ‘breast reduction operations aren’t successful when the patient is as fat as you’. He didn’t actually phrase the last bit like that but that’s what he was trying to say. He did a tremendous job of making me feel I’d eaten far too many pies without ever once using the words ‘fat’ or obese’. Fair play to him.

He did me a favour. It was the kick up the arse I needed. So here we are, a few days in, and I am Absolutely Determined. Again.

I have also realised that if I do actually manage to lose 3 stones I almost certainly wouldn’t need a breast reduction op, thereby saving myself several thousand pounds. Is the prospect of avoiding an operation and saving myself a not inconsiderable sum of money going to be enough for me to actually do it this time? Dear God I hope so.

 

 

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