Despite the lack of thyroid meds, my gland still refuses to play ball and my weight stubbornly refuses to drop.
Not one teeny tiny eeny weeny pound.
The remnants of a relapse haven’t helped, but, really?
So. I’m in the middle of a conundrum:
- First, the scary thought – this could be me, like, forever.
- Second, I may never, ever feel the unparalleled joy of a size 14 pair of jeans, ever again.
- Third, I’m so unremarkable that people don’t even sympathise with, ‘such a shame she’s so large, she has such a pretty face.’
- Fourth – plastic surgery?
Where do I go from here? Well, I’ve counted my options; I could:
- Brave the Larger-Ladies stores
- Buy fun-and-large-jewellery to draw attention away from tree-trunk thighs, triple chins and chipmunk cheeks
- Dye my hair a ‘wacky’ shade (blue/pink/magenta) so people don’t notice I’m actually a walking, talking blob
It doesn’t help that The Teenager has transformed his body over the last year and is now a strapping 6′ 4” muscly-peep and scrutinises everything he eats to the nth calorie. He’s offered to take me to to his gym – preferably late at night – just in case he bumps into his mates. He shows me simple exercise I can do with cans of beans and bottles of Evian.
No matter how many times I play I Am Woman, it doesn’t help.
Invincible? Erm, no.
I have a new plan – invest in those large pashmina/throws. M&S sell a nice range. Just wear all black underneath, chuck on a pashmina/throw and a bit of an attitude and I could be ready to go? Or are they picnic blankets in disguise? Was I in the wrong department?
It’s a learning phase. I must bring forth my inner loveliness, whatever that means. People may balk at my bulk, but I should always present a positive and shining aura.