Right, that is it. I am coming to work solely in jogging pants. My trousers are too short. Now, I’m a tall girl, but this is not the problem. I remember when I bought these trousers (oh those halcyon days) and they were too big. I considered taking them back to swap them for the smaller size. I distinctly remember standing in front of the mirror holding the waistband of the trousers aloft, considering just how much extra space my body was languishing in.
But, it seems, I have got old and content, which = fat. The trousers have become too short because my bum (and the rest of me – just most noticeably the bottom/thigh area) has grown by what can only be described as gargantuan proportions. Which means that the trousers have become shorter because more of them is taken up in the strenuous effort required to cover my wobbling fleshy area.
Therefore, it has reached that time. I am going to have to call in the expert… Gillian McKeith, your services are required. No, no – I’m not actually going to get in touch with the naggingly irksome mini-creature. I am going to employ a much more tempered down version – her book. No nagging, no poking and saying disgusting (or more accurate to her pronunciation -
dizz-ggust-ting), no putting me in a bath of my own weight in melted lumps of lard, no getting me on an exercise bike for half an hour before every meal, no cycling behind me in a bobble hat, watching my bum wobble as I struggle to jog around the block (yes, I have let my running fall by the wayside – yes – that means I have reverted to the style of jogging that includes red-facedness, feet dragging, chin in the air looking like I’m struggling to breathe…)
I am seriously entertaining the prospect of doing the Gillian McKeith detox. Last time I did it, I lost half a stone in the month I did if for. Do you think it would be a bit drastic to do it for four months?
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