THURSDAY is my favourite day. I wait all week for Thursday – and when it’s gone, the wait starts again.
There is one, and only one, reason for me holding Thursday is such high esteem – it is fat fighters weigh-in day.
Yes, that’s right, women and men united against fat. It’s really very empowering.
My life is consumed by it, and Thursday is the day I’m allowed to eat whatever I bloody want.
Everywhere I go I am armed with my trusty black food diary; not a morsel passes my over-fed mouth without it being documented. I’m like a fat-busting machine. Nah, that’s actually a massive lie.
I’m good for about three days and then, once Thursday comes, I lose the plot and eat like someone who has just emerged from a two-week sojourn in a famine-ravaged country.
Then I go back to being good for a day, along comes Saturday, and I go mad again.
I might try to be good for Sunday, which may or may not prove successful, and then on Monday I turn into a demonic point-counting force just waiting for Thursday so I can unleash myself again.
It’s a cycle ... a cycle of doom.
I realised I had a pointcounting problem when I went out for a bite to eat with my significant other.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“What?” I say, startled. “I’m not doing anything.”
“Yes, you are. You are muttering to yourself.”
“I am not muttering, for God’s sake, I’m talking to you.”
“No, you were muttering. You were looking at your plate, counted to five (using your fingers, by the way) and then you muttered something about maybe adding a half.”
“I did not!”
“You did!”
“Ooooooh.”
That was when I realised I had a point-counting problem. From that moment on, it consumed me.
The supermarket is now my war zone, to be approached only with military precision.
I arm myself with my point-counter, steadfastly refusing to purchase goods which will exacerbate my already elephant-like arse.
It’s like the aisles filled with food are my friends … and my enemy.
Tomatoes? Yes, thank you. Cucumber? Oh definitely. Apples? Sure, why not. White bread? I don’t think so, pal. A packet of chocolate biscuits, perhaps? Not on my watch, lady.
I have a well-travelled path through particular aisles. If I lose concentration and find myself in an unexpected aisle – say, the bad one, where they keep all the chocolate and biscuits, you know, the nice stuff – I get disoriented.
My natural fat self tries to burst through.
Maybe I’ll just have a small peek at the produce? I cajole. Maybe they will have produced a fat-free chocolate biscuit which I won’t even know exists because I haven’t examined the biscuit aisle in yonks. I should really check to make sure. Again, it’s a cycle. A cycle of doom.
Thus far, the fat-fighting process has actually been quite successful. (Look at me blowing my own trumpet: I do so enjoy it).
It is partly based on fear, of course. Fear of failure.
Naturally, given my tendency to love myself more than necessary, I’ve spent about half of my time in fat fighters being told that I have just put up the pounds I had lost the previous week.
Again, it’s a cycle. A cycle of doom.
I’ve also diagnosed myself with body dismorphia. Usually people with this condition think they are fatter than they really are. Unfortunately, I have it in reverse – I actually think I’m thinner than I really am. However, since my astute self-diagnosis, I am working on resolving the issue.
But it’s all just a cycle. A cycle of doom.