The Confessions of a Yo-yo Dieter
Note to self: One half arsed-home workout does not warrant scoffing one whole Terry’s Chocolate Orange, half a box of Lindor, a packet of crisps, and two pieces of marmite on toast before bed.
And if I’m completely honest, I suppose nothing really warrants such behaviour, but try telling me that.
I do it all the time.
It always starts on a Monday: After setting my alarm nice and early the night before, fully ready to embrace the day ahead of me, I wake-up on (or about) the seventh snooze. After dragging my lifeless body out of bed, I tear off my all season Christmas pyjamas and jump in the shower, trying to avoid any glimpse I might get of my rather unseasoned birthday suit.
After showering, sitting on the edge of my bed naked with my hair in a towel turban is almost compulsory every day. I scroll through cute dog videos and silly rants from distant friends of friends on Facebook until I am content and a quick scroll through Instagram reminds me of my anything-but-bikini body that I’ve always longed to change. I stand up, towel off any remaining damp creases or bulges and begin to apply my war paint for the day ahead of me. A good forty-five minutes later my eyebrows are finally looking even after the sixth attempt, my hair is looking reasonable in a matter of minutes, and now fully clothed, I am ready for my day.
Every Monday morning starts with a healthy breakfast; usually avocado on toast or a freshly blended smoothie (with almond milk of course). I am feeling well and truly Kim Kardashian by about 10am. By now, I’ve usually thought about sitting down with a book in the garden, but today it’s pissing it down outside and I haven’t got an umbrella. I’ve also thought about saying “fuck it” and nipping down the shops for a chocolate croissant. In fact, I am now just leaving the coop with two croissants, a sharer bag of Malteasers, and a packet of crisps - morning snacks. My hair is now wet from the awkward jog from the car to the shop and my t-shirt is slightly soggier from breaking a sweat.
My day goes downhill from almost the offset. I have no self-control, I lack motivation and I am a sucker for stuffing my face when there’s no one else about. I do try and hide such escapades; concealing biscuit boxes and chocolate wrappers in old handbags, coat pockets and in the bottom drawer of my bedside cabinet, however, finding such evidence only makes me crave these temptations at a later date. Win win for coop, just not so much for my waistline.
In the end, I smile and get on with my 3000 calorie day.
High-waisted jeans pulled up under my tits and a Snapchat filter stapled to my face, I know the diet will start again tomorrow.