Fuck fuck fuck. This morning, I have woken up feeling like shit. I feel a bit like Bridget Jones, 10 years later, who wakes up one morning, and realises that she's 10 years older and a stone heavier, two children richer, and a mortgage worse off. That Mr Darcy leaves his pants on the floor every night for her to pick up every morning, and still resolutely refuses to clear up the toast crumbs every morning. Cigarettes (weekend: 2) have gone up to £6.45 a pack, with another 17p due in the budget. Fuck, Bridget Jones worrying about the budget, for fucks sake.
This week, in her honour, I'm going to make up my own diet, the Bridget-Jones-(and-every-woman-of-a-certain-age-diet) - which involves waking up with the best of intentions, but an innate knowledge that by 10pm and the offer of a glass of wine, it will all go to shit. Ok, 8pm. If I can do it beyond lunchtime I'm onto a winner.
I should mention that I was ill last week, too ill to diet, so Carol Vordermans detox will have to wait for another week. I've also got one I really want to do called the Core Balance, a four-week guide, exploring the emotional as well as physical reasons for weight gain. I love the thought that I can blame my parents and my own sense of self-worth, rather than Mr Cadbury. Unfortunately, the book is too long to actually read, but as soon as I get round to it I'll give it a go...
No comments:
Post a Comment