fat-womanIt is no secret to those who know me that I love food. And I most love sweet food. Cakes, biscuits, slices, chocolate…bring them all on. But then their is also bacon, or Eggs Benedict. Creamy lemony hollandaise. Yum. FIrstly, you can get food. You don’t have to be nice to it, you just buy it and eat it. Instant gratification. And there the problem begins, for me anyway.

As a child my mother cooked cakes and biscuits. She was a brilliant cook, and the cake tins always had to be full in case we had visitors. That was always a bit of an anomally to me, as mum hated unexpected guests and would grit her teeth and look grim until they had gone off down the drive, her peering through the venetians and muttering curses. Still, the cake tins were always full. It was a ritual, and so, I thought with the logic of a child, the food needed to be eaten. My mother would not eat much of it herself, as she was always on a diet. My first word might have been “calorie” and I watched my mother with a little red book which she read more avidly than any other book. The cover had two silhouettes – one slim and curvy, and the other fat and curvy. This image is still indelibly etched in my mind today. She ate round, hard slimming biscuits called “slimrite rolls”. They tasted like delicately flavoured cardboard.

Anyway, I digress. My mother used to hide the cake tins under the marital bed. (Another site of forbidden pleasures also, I should think.) We girls mastered the art of sliding silently under the bed, prising open the tins and delicately pilfering a cake or a biscuit. We became experts, even slicing fine slivers from the perimeter of cakes so it would look like it was still in its virgin cake like state.  Alas, I grew up thinking that sweet food was always forbidden.

So I made up for it, and have lost and gained the same ten kilos so many times on so many diets that I have forgotten their names. Now it more like twenty kilos, and getting to middle age, health issues become a concern with a rounded female belly. My small grandchild recently asked if I had a baby in there, and when told that the answer was no, he sagely advised me to go and do a poo. If only it was that easy I thought.

So, I have joined a women’s only gym with a circuit and a special eating plan which looks alarming. I start tomorrow, wish me luck. I ran through the programme yesterday, and finished with their special massage chair. It was great, a darkened room, and fifteen minutes of being pummelled and tweaked by an electronic chair which felt like at times it was munching on my feet.

All over the world, I imagine other women signing up to loose weight. It is no longer the myth of looking perfect in a bikini on the beach. The goal has changed. I want to live as long as I can and have more energy. So, as I said before, wish me luck as I ignore the shining wrappers luring me towards the Cherry Ripes at the Supermarket. I am off to find the mung beans.

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