Reversing the Middle-Aged Spread

“No, really, it’s getting serious,” I protested, as we tucked into our Indonesian chicken curry. It had been Maggie’s suggestion to add mushrooms and it was really delicious. It’s all right for her; she’s younger than me, slightly hypo-glycaemic (which means she burns food like there’s no tomorrow) and she has an extremely active toddler who keeps her constantly on the go. Naturally, she’s slim and gorgeous. “I’ve really got to do something drastic; from the legs up, I am a weeble with boobs.”

Tears sprang into Maggie’s eyes as she tried to laugh and swallow simultaneously (and failed). She took a swig of her spritzer. “God, Bex, you’ve got to be joking! Surely it can’t be that bad?”

I nodded gloomily, swallowing yet another fabulous mouthful. “Anyway, I’ve come to a decision: I’m going to diet – starting tomorrow.”
“Why tomorrow?”
“Well, it can’t be today because of this,” I gestured at our little feast, “So tomorrow is the earliest I can start. And I’m planning to blog it, at least once a week. That should shame me into sticking to it.”
“Now that I will look forward to,” she giggled, raising her glass. “Let’s drink to that.”

The problem is approaching middle age I’ve spread – mainly round my middle. What was once a fairly fit and healthy size ten, twenty-eight inch waist is now as zip-straining, button busting thirty-six inches. (Please bear in mind that I couldn’t even get into the Metropolitan Police when I was a graduate because I wasn’t tall enough). The scales are equally depressing; wobbling towards twelve stone. Blimey, I was barely that when I was pregnant! However, it’s an ill wind as the saying goes and the upside is that I’ve developed boobs. What were once pretty pathetic tangerines are now cantaloupes. I was ecstatic when I first developed a cleavage (or cliché as Dangerous Dennis likes to phrase it). However, it comes at a price; bazookas are heavy and it takes serious scaffolding to keep those babies in place – industrial bras don’t come cheap (or, it has to be said, particularly sexy).

I realise that I’m not obscenely overweight, but it is enough to make clothes buying (even in the bra department) pretty depressing. I currently have a wardrobe stuffed full of clothes I like but simply don’t fit into any more. But scarier when I think about it is that to get back to my original size I will need to lose more than a quarter of my current body weight (for years my non-pregnant weight was just under 8½ stone). Put like that, it sounds pretty obscene.

And the reality is that currently I really don’t feel great about the way I look and that is reflected in all sorts of ways. I tend towards supermarket undies, jeans and jumpers. And the reason for that is twofold, I suppose. On the surface is a certain lack of self-esteem, but lurking below that is the rationale of the procrastinator. I have known for some time that I need to do something about my weight; why bother investing in fabulous clothes (especially as, no matter how special they are, I don’t feel particularly fabulous in them) when I’m intending to shrink out of them imminently? But I haven’t got round to shrinking, and I haven’t invested in clothes that make the new, bigger me feel fabulous because I’m not happy being like this. A vicious circle, isn’t it?

Good grief, that sounds gloomy!

The question is; how did this happen? Why has this spare tyre crept on?

Well, lack of stress, for one thing. When I’m really, really stressed my pulse rate goes up, my appetite plummets and food assumes the flavour and texture of cardboard. Nor do I sleep well; so I exercise more, prowling round the house in the wee small hours. (Trust me, I know what it is to feel really stressed, but that’s another story for another time.) Now that I’m happy with a lovely husband, home and life I enjoy cooking, eating and relaxing after work with a glass or three of wine and I sleep like a baby. (On no! The thought police and health authorities are probably on to me now, ready to cart me off to the Priory. Who came up with that ludicrous measure of two units per adult female per day? Our partners in Europe having been drinking more than that for years and living longer. Someone’s head should roll.) However, even I can’t escape the fact that booze contains a lot of calories, and clearly I’m consuming more than I’m burning off or I wouldn’t be getting fatter.

Lack of exercise, for another. I look at my younger, slimmer friends, and they’re on the go all the time; baby carrying is fabulous exercise and when your sprouts are small, you’re having a weight training workout every day without realising it. My teenagers simply don’t involve that degree of physicality (well, not from me at any rate). And my work has become more sedentary. What am I doing right now? Not working (or even pretending to) as it happens but nevertheless, me sitting in front of a monitor exercising little more than my brain and fingertips pretty much sums up most of my working life.

I think I’ve also developed body anti-dysmorphia (or should that be body amorphia – when you quite like the way your body looks despite evidence to the contrary?). There’s only one full length mirror in our house – in our bedroom – and because of its position I only ever catch myself in it in profile. If I make the effort to suck my stomach in my boobs distract me sufficiently to think I look okay. And in every other mirror in the house (we have quite a few, for the reflected light, of course) it’s only my face and upper torso that are visible – and they look in proportion with each other. It’s only when I’m confronted with my full image face on (usually on shopping trips with my beautiful svelte daughters) that I am confronted with the awful truth that not only do I possess love handles but they are rapidly changing into panic bars.

Anyway, I reckon that if I steel myself to diarise my shrinking journey, I’ll stop making excuses, stick with it and hopefully even get in some exercise. The little red book I’ve got claims that with three half grapefruits a day, a healthy diet and a modicum of exercise, the pounds should tumble off in a fortnight. I think even I can manage a fortnight without booze. And if the wine is not winding me down, I might even get the get up and go to exercise.

So… that’s about it. Tomorrow is D-day. I’ll keep you posted.