Right so! As my chest is no longer full of gunk, I have no excuse not to at least try to get my fat arse off the couch and onto the treadmill and so that's what I've been doing. Junk food, and eating between meals is now banned, except for weekends where all bets are off. I'm doing zumba. My arms hurt, my stomach muscles scream everytime I move. This better be worth it.
Why am I even doing this? Future husband says he likes my body as it is. He did mention something about more cushion for the pushin' and lovehandles before I threatened to smother him in his sleep, but he's a skinny man so we'll ignore him. On a realistic note, I know I'm never going to be Kate Moss. I'm already a healthy weight, so why do I find the need to strive towards a perfect set of abs (never gonna happen) or arms free of the dreaded bingo wings (again with the not happening thing)? Photos. Curse the photos. I don't want to look back in them and see flabby arms or a beer gut, or my 500 chins. Trouble is, even if I do manage to suddenly be all thin and model like (say there's a magic pill), I'm still going to look a bit special in the photos. Even my best photos make me look like I have learning difficulties.
Plus, as always temptation is lurking around every corner. Was it Oscar Wilde who said "I can resist anything but temptation". Right there with you, big man. Last week when I was being bad = no junk food in the workplace. Today when I'm being good = cookies, cakes and security guards bearing cream cakes.
Arrrrrgghhh. Why couldn't I just have the good genetics?