fat camp.

No, not really, but I’m tempted to make t-shirts to make myself commit. I’m gonna lose 10 kilos before January and get down to 68kg. I even have that hateful scale system in the Nintendo’s Wii Fit board tracking me and my current weight and my goal period so someone makes me feel guilty and bad if I start eating Pringles or being a slack-arse. It may be a digital someone, but anything’s better than letting ME be in charge of the scales. It needs to be a traumatic experience so I’ll take it seriously. If there was software to make the Nintendo swear at me, I’d hack it. That said, I’m not just jumping up and down on my balance board. I walk regularly as it is and plan to kick that into a bit more of an aggressive gear, and I’m doing sit-ups twice a day. I don’t wanna become an exercise weirdo or a gym junkie or get fucking “toned”, I just want one area of my body to not be there anymore: the empty baby house.

It’s not that I think I’m hideous or that I *need* to be skinny because of society pressure or whatever the fuck – Hell, I’ve never even liked being thin. I’d rather have a few curves when it comes to the end of the day. I have big boobs – I always will, and I need something to balance it out. But it’s gotten to the point where buying clothes is distressing me, and nothing I own fits anymore and really, I own a lot of nice things that I spent a lot of money on! I don’t wanna throw them away only to have to wear clothes from the middle-aged section of Target. Where I am right now, I am in the last size of the “normal” sizes (I’m a 16, I’m not ashamed to tell you!) and I had trouble buying a bra when I was a size 12 because of my chest size, so it’s now a task that involves swearing and tears and flesh-toned granny bras to get to the 6th letter of the alphabet. Extra weight means extra weight everywhere. It’s starting to get dire.

I don’t care if I can never wear a bikini again, or that I have stretchmarks and cellulite, or if my arse keeps all my baby weight, or if my arms are soft rather than ripped. I’d mostly like to slouch less, wear jeans again, and stop having to put props on my lap when I sit on the train because of my baby-belly. Okay, let’s be honest; my baby-belly that I never worked on that is now a baby-belly full of “easy” food. I’m an emotional eater; I eat when I’m upset. I’m an entertainment eater; I eat when I’m bored. And I’m a lazy eater; I eat unhealthily and at incorrect times. And yes, I could do what I’ve been doing for the past 5 years, saying “Mothers are supposed to be squishy” or “I have a woman’s body now” which are all really hiding the real issue – it’s fine if that’s how you really feel about yourself and you’re comfortable, but I’m not. I turn the lights off when I take my clothes off around my partner! I have no-touch zones because they make me self-conscious. That’s a sign that something isn’t right.

And you’re probably reading this thinking, “who the fuck cares?” Well, yeah. I don’t expect everyone to tune into fucking online episodes of Nikki as The Biggest Loser, but maybe if I write this down (I will not delete, I will not delete) it will make it more concrete and I will dedicate myself to changing my lifestyle and my habits.