Scales. Why were scales ever invented? They are the work of Satan himself. Just when I think that life couldn't get any harder, I make the mistake of placing one tiny step on the balance - a contraption which is a bit like a patronizing bank manager who smirks at you, quietly tutting, did you really need to invest that money in a double chocolate cream lard filled cake? Yes I did at the time. But just like reading that bank statement and gasping, I stand in horror as the scale reading hits the red zone. Holy crapola - nooooooo! Readjusting my position makes no difference, sorry to be base, but even a motion makes little difference. Let's face it I'm a fatty and "you know you are!" screams the weighing machine. I fight the total. Clothes are thrown off in abandon and I step again - zilch, nada no flipping change! Diet stations and I need help. This is the moment of a knee-jerk reaction - I stupidly invest the aid of number one son, fitness freak merchant. Big mistake!
Now I am in diet boot camp, fat club with a teenage militant running the show. I am watched constantly; every morsel, that enters my mouth, is scrutinized and is assessed for nutritious content and I feel like I am living under the youth police - well at least the teenage diet police. He's enthusiastic, unrelenting in his new role as" save mum from obesity". He is a damn-right diet tyrant! I have an exercise regime and am lectured on the need for less "carbs" and more protein. Alcohol is off my menu. I am slowly loosing the will to live. I pretend to acquiesce but slope off at any given opportunity to lick the wall. Pilates, running and carrot sticks are the food of my day. When will this nightmare end?
I begin to crack by Day Two - tears bring nothing but contempt; shouting just a silent arrogant, slow shaking of the head; banging my head on the floor receives a comment of : "I did have my doubts whether this was going to work, Mum"; scowling is rewarded by: "I feel your pain!" Yes my son, you will feel my pain!
Day three and I'm liberated. Sod diets - they suck! I like being comfortably round. As he arrives for his morning of exercise torture, I am waiting to greet him with peanut butter toast smeared around my face. He is stunned into body beautiful shock, I, however, reach for my sixth slice. Silence is golden but just audible, through my munching, crunching and slurping of my buttery nut feast, is: "Boy, I feel your pain!"
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