I caught sight of my arse in a changing room mirror today and almost cricked my next spinning around to reassure myself that it wasn’t me. Which it was, obviously.
I was trying on white capri pants for next week’s cruise. These were capri pants I’d already bought – I took them back, tried them on again in a bigger size and realised that the 10 fit just as well as the 12, and when I say ‘well’ I mean that I looked like a blubber whale in either size. I was too mortified to try anything on to replace them so I shall just throw them back in my wardrobe and pretend I don’t own them.
I don’t understand when this lack of definition in my physique occurred. I used to go in and out and have some muscle definition. Now I just go out, and then further out. My arse looks like I have two buoyancy aids down my trousers, and given that in a week I’ll be in the middle of the Med on a boat, this concerns me.
I’ve never been on a boat before; not a big one with bedrooms. I believe their are rules on ballast and so on, and ultimately, I am concerned that the ship will list to starboard or similar when I go to sleep, ot that someone will grab my legs to stay afloat in the case of a Titanic-scale tragedy (they will regret that move as we will plummet to the nearest wreck and be eaten by fishes before you can say ‘I’m sinking’.
Worse still, the weather report isn’t spectacular and I am torn in two directions – part of me thinks if it’s not hot and sunny, there will be less cause to expose my bleached and beached body to fellow holiday-makers, who let’s face it, could have gone to a farm if they wanted to see a pot bellied pig, and not shelled out on a posh two-week boat trip, while the other part of me is aware that I look thinner when I’m brown, but then I might block out the sun when I lumber on to the deck, waddling along in my silver diamante sandals. I have gone overboard (see what I did there) buying holiday sandals because my feet are the only parts of me that don’t fluctuate in size.
I can pretty much wager that I will come back a good half a stone heavier because the food on these holidays is meant to be outstanding, but I can also say that sadly for me, there won’t be many photos of me because I don’t want to be immortalised digitally in my current state, thanks.
There is a gym on board, and I am packing trainers, plus we’ll be doing a lot of walking through Rome, Monaco, Sorrento and Dubrovnik, but I think that the damage has been done and won’t be easily undone.
The week I get back, I’ll be investing in four personal training sessions. It grieves me that I’ll have to pay someone to get me back on track and express disgust and disappointment at my lack of willpower and sense of pride, but I come face to face (and indeed, arse to face) with it every day in the mirror, so maybe a super-fit honed gym fascist is the only thing that will haul me off the slippery slope and set me back on the straight and narrow path I fell off six or so months ago. Here’s hoping.