Over the past couple of weeks my diet is getting increasingly simplified. If it looks edible, I will eat. This has reduced a lot of confusion in the household. Gerrout all them leftovers, the garbage bag is right at the dining table, fork and spoon in hand. And for all ye who visit bearing candy and chocolates for the critter, know that none of them will be reaching his stomach, thanks to worm infestation threats, and teeth which have become cavity zones. No, no, my good self will be doing the world a favour and downing entire bars before blink can happen. And you blinked. And missed it.
I have been on a comfort eating overdrive so bad, that in analogy terms I would be wrapped in a goosedown silk quilt and with a satin covered down pillow, sleeping on sating sheets in a sound proofed room, with no strange crows squawking around at midnight, or wierder people living in the flat above making thumping sounds on the floor that could possibly be furniture being moved at 2 am, or elephants mating. Seeing that elephants wouldnt be able to make it to the 16th floor without us being witnesses to them being hauled up by crane and pulley situation, I wonder what sort of people decide to redecorate at hours when saner people wish to sleep. Never mind. The comfort eating, read, ordering in pakoras, vadas, chocolates, even plain butter on bread is being occasioned of course, by the wonderful monsoon lashing the scenery. Something about dull grey skies before me that makes it mandatory to go on calorific overdrive. No excuses. Therefore the huffing and puffing when the jeans have to buttoned every morning, and the cursing of the washing machine and detergent for shrinking every pair I own to barbie doll proportions, and viewing self in the mirror with body and head at a diagonal angle to ensure that the flab gets cut to proportion also helps make one feel better about self.
Another trick in the kitty is to never, never, never, ever look at yourself in changing room mirrors. You change, and see if the damn thing goes up your thighs and buttons up or goes down your shoulders and doesnt tear and hot foot it out of there. Ask a disinterested third party for their opinion on whether you should buy it. Changing room mirrors are spawned of a conspiracy between slimming centres and shopowners where them centres pay the stores a flat commission on every candidate who runs to them screaming from the trauma of having seen self reflected infinitely in insanely well lit mirrors which magnify every bump, every stretch of orange peel skin and every little spare tyre that refuses to get punctured.
A lot of comfort eating has also happened with the added stress of realisation that I cannot, anymore, hold off being firmly in aunty territory. It is so unfair, the husband greys all over and looks like a dapper version of Richard Gere. I grey all over and become old hag. Should probably keep the broomstick handy.
Having realised that the weight loss scheme is actually going nowhere, by this combined double whammy of rains, therefore no walks, and rains, therefore excessive junk food ingestion, and the fact that the area of the mattress where I normally sit and read my dose of celeb and fashion news, accompanied by them comfort foods is getting surely and firmly indented, I have decided to take action. I will now not snack on overdrive anymore. Which means, I will keep myself away from temptation. Which in turn means, I probably need to lock myself in the bathroom and firmly resist eating up the soaps.
Or maybe that would be a good idea, I would eat them soaps, get the stomach a wash out and then be totally off food forever and ever. The other day at lunch with friends noticed suddenly, in what I thought was my starting round that all had cleaned up their plates and kept cutlery in 12 oclock position. I shamelessly laboured on. Why waste good food! This conscience of course, will never strike me, should said food comprise karela and greens. Any one know of any hypnosis kind of therapy that will make the thought of eating fat laden sweet, deep fried and other such items of obesity absolutely repugnant, kindly do send link over.
And maybe, just maybe, I need to get busier. The more idle time one has, the more one eats. And thinks of what could be eaten next. Having no time to eat sounds marvellously puffed with self importance.
Or maybe, just maybe, I should make a promise to myself that I will only eat what I cook myself. I can guarantee will drop two dress sizes in a month. Maybe I will become so fabulously slim doing that that people will clamour for my secret and will do a book on it, and book tours and readings and such like and make lots of money. But, alas, even wild horses with Gucci saddles couldnt drag me to a table set with food cooked by moi, so that plan goes the way of all my good intentions.
Will just take the stairs once a day. That should do it, I guess. If I have any calves left after a week.