The muck continues to flow from my nose, and the coughs just keep on coming, so I skipped the gym again last night. I was twitching to go back but every time I went to practice some moves my head felt so fuzzy I thought I’d keel over, so I stayed in and read my Slimming magazine.
I am determined to go back on Monday though, dammit. I am having Body Jam withdrawls. You know you’re addicted when you practice dance steps at the bus stop. My sister and I gave a nice performance outside the supermarket the other night. It was one of the hiphop tracks, made all the more authentic by my three-sizes-too-big jacket and Dangerous Thug woollen beanie.
Anyway, back to Slimming magazine. I rush out and buy it every month so I can spend an evening comparing myself to the success stories, stewing in my feelings of inadequacy and envy. That woman lost 5 stone in 6 months?! Why can’t I lose that quick? Or she started losing at the same time I did, so why aren’t I done yet? Or, she is WAY too skinny now. Or, look at the way she’s posing, she’s hiding her bat-wing arms. Or, her calves are still huge. Or, she hasn’t done any exercise, so I may be taking longer but at least I’ll be more toned.
Or every now and then I might actually read one of these stories and say, "Oh cool, good for her, that’s great!".
Numbers are evil, this much we all know. Why just the other day I was waiting at the bus stop all innocent-like, and a great big number 3 and 7 came up behind me and demanded I hand over my purse.
No, really. If we’re not getting distraught about the scale it’s the sizes on our clothing labels. Still, when the numbers go down one can’t help getting excited. The other day my sister got some clothes from a mail order place. She’d ordered a size 14 top and it was too big for her. That’s when we realised the clothes were American sizes, not British. I tried the top on for a laugh, and blow me down, it fitted perfectly.
It was a bizarre experience, I stood there gawking in the mirror, saying, "Holy CRAP! My tits are enormous! Where did they come from?". I was getting all upset until my sister pointed out that they were the same bazookas as before, just my decreasing waist meant they were more distinct these days. Also my other tops are getting a bit baggy around the waist, so I couldn’t really see my shape until I wore something that fitted properly.
Anyway. Bloody hell, kids. I want to move to the States. The numbers are much better for ones self esteem. I remember when I arrived in the UK a year ago, I was wearing my plus-size 18 clothes from Australia – so I nearly had a nervous breakdown at H&M when I could barely squeeze into Brit a size 24.
These days, I generally fit into a (non-plus) size 18 (in some of the more generous stores the 18 is getting roomy). But in good ol’ USA, dude, I could get myself into a 16! Or a 14 as in the case of the Hello Boobies top. I could really see that helping me keep my will to live when I hit the shops. In Britain they seem intent on destroying my soul.