Why I'm not a size eight

Its probably inevitable that whenever you get a group of women together, the conversation always ends up morphing into a discussion on weight. We really are fascinated with the whole concept of being overweight. We compare dress sizes, waist measurements, pounds, kilos, ounces, bpi and even body fat content. It is safe to say that women have something of an obsession with the whole subject. (I'm not being sexist here by the way, its just that I have no idea what groups of men talk about when they are on their own. I always presumed it was golf or cricket, but I could well be wrong, maybe they swap diet tricks with just as much enthusiasm as the girls. Not being a man, I will probably never know...)

The thing that always interests me is how many excuses women make for being overweight. Its all about thyroids, slow metabolism, no time to exercise... Wrong kind of foods... I've even heard chubby because doesn't eat enough! The one thing I never hear is overweight because they eat too much....

Well, always being one to swim against the tide, I'm going to confess something here. The reason I am a (generously underestimating here..) British size eighteen is simply because I eat too much. I do, its true! And I don't do it because of psychological problems or comfort eating or any of those other excuses. No, I eat too much because, simply, I like food. I like all food  the good, the bad and the very bad. I like that lovely feeling of fullness after a delicious meal and wine. Yes - and while I'm in confession mode, not only do I eat too much, I drink too much too! Not enough for the doctor to start raising eyebrows but enough for the scales to groan a bit harder on the weekly weigh in. And why do I drink too much? Yep, nothing to do with blotting out problems, its because I really really like the taste of wine. I don't look for the answers to life at the bottom of a wine bottle, I just enjoy emptying it.

So basically, what I am saying is I am not a size eight because I am fundamentally greedy.
Now I like to practice self honesty and have to admit that if I lost thirty pounds and dropped to a size fourteen, I would probably look more attractive than I do now. Not that I don't do my hair nice and wear lots of make up, but slimmer my features would stand out more and I could fit into slinky little black numbers.. No fox and sour grapes here, slimness is not something I don't want, its just that I don't want it enough. I don't want to give up all my lovely meals, sneaky little lunchtime pasties and bold red wines. I don't want to cut down on cheese or cream or (Goddess forbid) chocolate! I don't want the hassle of calorie counting, I don't fancy stinking of cabbage soup and I don't want to join those sad ladies lunching on half a lettuce leaf with a brave but miserable expression on their faces.

I'm lucky really because my doctor and my husband have both worked out that there is no point pussy footing around with me. To get the message I really do need to be likened to a hippopotamus. Telling me I've gained a pound or two just doesn't do the trick...
So my husband always has to point out when it really has to be time to diet (occasionally I lose twenty pounds and then have all the fun of putting it back on again...) I always know he's serious when he switches from using words like overweight to using the f word. The three letter f word that causes far more upset than its four lettered friend. Yes, when that word makes its appearance even this wobbly witch has to concede it might be time to cut down for a while...

But let's look on the bright side, he hasn't said it yet, so I will raise a toast with my bottle of shiraz and cornish pasty and enjoy the good times until I'm (temporarily at least) back on the lettuce leaves!

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