I don’t know about all you other wenches out there but I get on the scales A LOT. I know, I am going to talk my weight. To all my male readers (who read this column but pretend they don’t) Sorry. My husband hates it when I whinge. I would like to pretend that I am really cool and “don’t care” and when I hear other women say “Oh I just forgot to eat today”. I wake up thinking about food, sheeeshhh.
I have an addiction. I have been able to keep it a secret for many years, and because I was fairly active you could never tell.
A few years ago I was a lovely svelte size 12. I would walk up the hill nearly every day with one of my besties (her name is Jam) I was a turtle (her words) and I would bitch the WHOLE WAY UP and then wax lyrical the WHOLE WAY DOWN. I have no idea how she put up with me. Still, it kept my thighs slim (issshhhh) I lived on salmon and salads and only kept one chin. When I met Trent this went slowly went downhill. I still ate all my salads and meat and three veg at night and I would exclaim to Trent (we had just moved in together) I don’t understand why I am getting porky?!! And he would agree (as he is a wog and pretty much only eats meat, cheese and pasta) and urge me to go to the Dr’s to sort it out. I would agree and then pretend to book the appointment.. as I already KNEW what the problem was you see. Unbeknownst to Trent I had a little routine. I would drive home from work and purchase a happy meal. My grand pop and my mother is/was addicted to cheesies. I am not responsible for this addiction; obviously it’s in my genes. So I would purchase my meal and inhale the burger & eat a few of the fries. My problem was a very attentive partner who would meet me at the gate so I could drive into the garage immediately which meant I needed to dispose of the evidence soonest. So I took to flat packing the happy meal and storing it under the car seat with the intention of removing the evidence at a later date.
Unfortunately I decided to take Trent’s car to work one day as he was on a day off, being the good husband that he is, he wanted to clean my car. At the time I owned a well-loved Subaru Liberty, one of the perks was electric seats. I had a text message come through to me advising he was very concerned as it looked like the passenger seat was broken, midway through my call to get it looked at and it dawned on me WHY the seats were stuck. I advised him to LEAVE IT immediately! I received no response so raced home and there on the front lawn was my shrine of shame. 36 Happy meal boxes up packed and laid out on the grass – declaring to my partner the real reason for my increasing girth. To this day I cannot drive through McDonalds without my face flushing. Trent (wisely) says nothing, just asks me to please dispose of the wrapping outside of the vehicle.