The time has come for desperate measures. I have been getting more and more alarmed by my expanding girth but my fourteen year old boy appetite cannot be tamed. I am not a woman who craves salads, light healthy meals and clean eating. I have the palette of a truck driver and unfortunately I am starting to resemble one.
When planning my recent trip to Newfoundland I was looking forward to eating fish and chips. I ate a form of fried fish and chips every day, sometimes accompanied by a small plastic cup of coleslaw as a token vegetable. Not everyone has the chops for such feats of oil and batter but for my mighty iron stomach it was pure grease induced bliss. My feasts induced a dreamlike trance, akin to what opium den dwellers must experience, with glassy half-lidded eyes and an overwhelming need to recline on silky pillows. I half expected to die of a french fry induced stroke but I would have gone happily, requesting that my greasy ashes be scattered over the crashing waves of the Atlantic. It was a glorious greasy time.
It has to stop. I was at a Dancing With Parkinson’s event last night at a salsa club surrounded by shimmying supermodels in tiny dresses. I chugged gin and tonics in my frumpy sensible skirt, felt the sweat running down the back of my legs, my fried fish barrel gut straining against my Spanx. I capped off the evening by convincing The Sweetie that I needed an eggplant parmesan sandwich to soak up the gin. Obviously the sight of skinny models wasn’t enough motivation to change my fried food proclivities. Nevertheless I woke up this morning with a slight hangover and new resolve. I will reintroduce fruits and vegetables into my life and work towards doing my pants up again.