WEIGHT is for life, not just for Christmas.
And boy-oh-boy don’t we know it!
After all, this is not a phrase coined by a wise man, nor is it a catchy WeightWatchers slogan. It is quite simply a life lesson, one that most of us at some point have had to learn the hard way.
Like much of the British population, after a fantastic Christmas, I’m currently feeling the effects of too much turkey and sponge pudding. Every year at this time, we overindulge until we feel sick, despite knowing full well how we’ll regret it later, then begin the New Year struggling to zip up our jeans and vowing to shed those festive pounds fast.
The problem is it never comes off as easily as we managed to put it on and most of us are still nursing our extra curves come Easter, when we proceed to do even more damage to our dreams of washboard abs and Kylie bottom.
I can honestly say I’m now completely sick to death of the sight of chocolate. I never thought I’d see the day, but it’s true. My usually junk-loving body has even taken the drastic action of beginning to crave vegetables and other wholesome foods as it struggles to digest all the rubbish I’ve poured into it the past few weeks. The poor thing. I could never understand those people, the ones you see in documentaries sometimes, that let themselves get so big they can’t leave the house any more, but I imagine if Christmas were to become an all-year-round celebration, I’d have to get some door-widening equipment on order myself.
If you’re like me, you always make yourself the same promise – I will not overdo it this year, I will NOT overdo it this year. I will eat well right up until Christmas Eve (apart from my daily advent calendar chocolate, obviously!) and be back to good by Boxing Day.
Well somewhere along the way, the plan went awry and now, on December 29, I’m only three bites away from turning into the world’s first human Mars Bar.
There is a layer of crisp chocolate shell where my skin once was and my internal organs have slowly but surely been replaced by a soft caramel and nougat filling. The analogy is a little gross, I apologise, but I think you get my point.
So why do we do it to ourselves? After all, I can honestly say I’ve lost all enjoyment of the taste of chocolate by this point, but have I stopped eating it? Not while there’s breath in my body and chocolate oranges in my house! And therein lies the problem: my house is filled with the stuff. Boxes of truffles in every cupboard, bags of sweets in every corner and bowls of Quality Street on every surface. With a deck like that stacked against me, what chance do I have?!
My method of thinking seems to be ‘get it all eaten and out of the way before New Year’ so I find myself eating it morning, noon and night. A hearty breakfast of cookies, a light lunch of chocolate fingers and a well-rounded box of Dairy Milk for dinner. A stronger woman would throw it away. But I’m not strong, not when it comes to chocolate...and cheese...and wine...sigh... I simply can’t bring myself to bin such items, it goes against everything in my sweet-toothed nature.
But at least I’m making headway and I’m doing this by (generously) sharing the load. My boyfriend can’t sit down for more than a few minutes without me pressing a coffee and a Crunchie bar into his hand. And visitors who’ve called to pass on their festive good tidings, have not been allowed to leave without meeting the three-biscuit, two chocolate-bar and one mince-pie minimum.
If I’m getting fat, I’m taking everyone I know and love down with me...