It hasn’t been from any effort in terms of cutting out the calorific stuff, or working out to sweat the calories off or getting on a new fab diet that would attack the cellulite in my subcutaneous with sickle and get me thigh gap. No. It has just been plain exam stress and the swearing off from Nutella and alcohol. Also, putting the child on a healthy, junk food free diet, has resulted in no junk in the house, which in turn leads me to not snack at regular intervals on wafers and chocolates and the like, but instead finds me grazing the premises for fruit and nut, and not the variety that comes bunged into a chocolate. It is not a diet and exercise plan I recommend. It makes you irritable and leads to much sobbing in the bathroom, especially when you have offspring like mine who piles on more stress than is advisable to implode prescribed number of fat cells per day.
God knows, once the examinations are done with, I will breathe easy, inhale deeply and promptly pile on the lost kilos in the span of a few days, but until then let me wallow in the hitherto never experienced before vanity of needing a belt to hold the pants up at waist level.
The loss of weight has been greeted with varied reactions from most. Some sidle up to me, and ask me, in quiet composed tones, more suited for condolence meetings, whether I’ve been diagnosed with some wasting disease. Others ask me if it true that I have lost weight and if I reply with a perhaps, because god knows I haven’t weighed myself, and am just doing my judgement based on the loops in belt and foundation garments that I go one further up in, they refuse to accept my answer at face value and demand to know in glorious detail who my dietitian is and what my diet plan is. I should pack the offspring off to their homes for a week in answer. It would serve them right for being so mistrustful of an honest reply.
The most interesting response is, of course, from the mater. She, through the distorted lens of maternal affection, sees me at stick insect levels, tut tuts about imaginary skeletal bones showing through my skin, and insists on rustling up delicacies she knows I can’t resist and must eat at levels that make me wish I was a cow with four stomachs to accommodate them all, and to be able to masticate the extra ingested at leisure.
I’m not holding my breath about staying svelte for too long, but I’m enjoying the brief break from being, errm, haalthy, as they euphemistically put it. Now if only I could figure out how to be wealthy and wise with it, life would really be good.