Most days I am on some kind of a diet. Or feel like I should be on some kind of a diet. Or am scoffing French fancies, guzzling gin and tonics or gorging on hot buttered wedges of toast, whilst waiting for the diet guilt to engulf me. I’m not a body-hater – actually, I’m pretty confident about my curves (I’ve been charmingly described as having an hour-and-a-half glass figure), but it doesn’t stop me wistfully gazing at the gawky fawn-like proportions of my desk pal Corrie or coveting Claudia’s mile-long gams.
Diet-guilt is part of being created woman. Last weekend I was at the supermarket with my beau, picking up dinner and a small mid-afternoon snack. While I perused the low-fat hummus section he appeared with a sausage roll and a scotch egg. As I shook my head in disbelief at his heart-attack-in-a-picnic-hamper, he snippily retorted he was hungry and that was what he fancied.
Me too poppet, me too!
Blokes live a life without limits (well dietary ones) - can you even remember when you last did that?
My general rule is one sweet treat a day (a chocolate digestive, not an entire tub of ice cream) and some exercise every other day (a 30 minute run, not a three-hour gym session). I guess it’s sort of working for me. I’m just managing to elude my round and cuddly Polish genes but I’m accepting that I’ll never be described as lithe and willowy either.
One day I still vow I’ll lose that agonisingly stubborn 15lbs that I know life would be much more rosy without. Then maybe I’ll understand what Kate Moss said about nothing tasting as good as skinny feels. But I doubt it.
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