She really means it this time.
I’m on a diet. When am I not, says you, but this time I’m taking it seriously. So seriously that last night I went to Nando’s and instead of ordering three portions of halloumi to go with my chicken burger, coleslaw and Peri Peri chips (my mouth actually filled up with water typing this) I had butterfly chicken, corn on the cob (without the butter) and a side of mixed greens and it all tasted like MORE.
Every single Monday I start the never ending battle of “I mean it this time” and every other day ending in Y. When a size 10 skirt wouldn’t go over my hole in the River Island dressing room – I mean it this time. I’m putting talc between my legs because I cannot bear the chub rub – I really mean it this time. That noise my excess skin makes when its rubbing off him while we’re having sex – f*ck me, how is he even entering me?! I definitely mean it this time.
But usually by Thursday evening I have fallen off the wagon and am rubbing curry sauce all over me gums like my life depends on it. Not this time though. I signed myself up with a personal trainer two weeks ago (what have I become) who gave me a healthy five small meals a day plan to follow and although I call him a f**king prick to his face when I’m choking on my own sweat, I’m starting to see the benefits.
The last few weeks have not been easy and here is the emotional roller coaster you are about to endure to get that Ibiza body ready.
The first time I made all my meals the night before I was delighted with myself. Strolling into work waving my lunch boxes around like they were an engagement ring. But as the week went on the thought of getting off the sofa to fill those little plastic boxes of doom made me want to cry. But then I looked at the skirt that wouldn’t fit me and was reminded of how I felt in that dressing room and before you knew it I had enough to do me for the next three days. Make it in bulk Huns. Trust me.
Now I love my oul caffeine hit in the morning and by day two of not having a can of Monster or Red Bull for breakfast you would have sworn I was coming off heroin. I was a scorpy lil C U Next Tuesday.
Everything irritated the life out of me. The sound my heating made when it turns on – Rage. The noise of the bloke sitting beside me breathing like a horse 24/7 – Absolute Rage. The bloke in my life ringing me at 5.03 when he said he’d ring me at 5pm – Full Blown Mental Breakdown. But the worse the headaches got the more I realised how bad that stuff was for me and by day three, and 20 litres of water, the withdrawals and mood swings eased off. As my jeans will soon too.
All the fruit, veg and water turned my skin to shit. Every morning when I looked in the mirror I felt like I was 15 again and getting ready to beg my ma to put me on the pill because I heard it clears your acne. But by day 14 (as in today) my skin is brighter, my eye bags resemble a clutch rather than an overnighter, and my foundation glides on.
They don’t mention these on the cartons of milk or on the wrapper of your protein bar but be prepared to fart more than ever and for them to be extra loud and extra potent at that.
So here I am, all 5 foot 4 of me getting ready to eat more turkey and broccoli at my desk adding all those tiny bikinis into my online cart trying to think of an excuse to give my PT so I don’t have to go later. I’ll send you on a Transformation Tuesday soon Huns.
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