Welcome to the new year, you fat pig. Thanks to your inability to control yourself over the festive period, you are now five pounds heavier and, frankly, a disgusting shell of a human being. (The January ads are a lot crueller than the pre-Christmas ones, aren’t they?)
Anyway, if you, like me, are feeling more Jabba than JLo at this current moment in time, welcome. A little more insulation and a little less self-esteem.
I know what you’re thinking. Another January, another blog talking about weight gain.
But I wish to focus on the fact that despite all my clothes bursting at the seams, I refuse to buy a larger size. Why?
Well, for one, sizes are bullshit. Unlike our lucky male counterparts – who are blessed with exact measurements that mean just that – high-street stores seem to just take the piss when it comes to what constitutes a size 10. I vary wildly in this respect, dancing (or plodding) between a size 6 and a 14, feeling like a sprightly slip of a thing one day and a gluttonous slug the next.
My leggings are a 12. My string tops are XS. My swimsuit is a 14 (fuck you, Speedo). At this current moment in time, I am wearing an 8, a 10, a 12 and a 14. H&M is the devil, in this respect. At best, it’s blatant inconsistency; at worst, it’s damaging to people with a negative body image.
So, I’ve tried (with moderate success) to ignore labels on clothes. Stop looking at sizes and scales because, at the end of the day, if you’ve gained a noticeable amount of weight, you’ll feel it yourself when you have to stretch that arm a little higher to avoid the double-chin selfie.
For me, my five-pound excess was glaringly clear when I ripped my size 10 (I know, kidding myself with this Donald Duck arse) jeans in half upon sitting down too quickly. Like, in half. I could fit my head through that hole. Baby got too much back. My jeans can’t even handle me right now.
Solution? Give up full-fat butter and proper mayonnaise and pasta? Nah. Physically move limbs a bit more? Maybe. Now, I’m not going to be standing inside one leg of my old jeans in a year’s time like those infamous Subway ads but, if I can feel a little less sluggish, I’ll be happy. Seeing as I hate running (like, to the point of tears), I pray that my Free Willy splashing about in the pool will help me wave goodbye to those extra bags of sugar.
A big ask, seeing as it’s still miserable January (too cold for a salad but perfect pie weather) but sure look it.
Anyway, I’m gonna make like my jeans and split.
Lead image: Paramount Pictures