Confessions Of A Sinner and The 2-Day Diet

Forgive me Father for I have sinned, and these are my confessions.

It has been 6 days since all hell broke loose, and I sought comfort in 1am fish and chips after spending half the day drinking beer after only eating breakfast. This then unfortunately led to Domino’s pizza the next day, as well as chips and the odd mini Oreo Easter egg or 6.

And I won’t lie…I feel awful.

It was all going so well, and then Laura the beer monster reared her ugly head, and before you can say espresso martini, there I am dancing, pint in my hand, thinking I’m down with the kids, without a care in the world.

When in the cold hard light of day, I’m nearly 33 and my wedding dress doesn’t fit.

I feel as though a great weight has been lifted off my chest confessing my dietary sins, especially as it was all going go well. I just had to take it to excess once again, and yes, it was just one weekend of debauchery, but it’s another weekend closer to not fitting in my dress! And I can’t even go to the gym as I have a huge blister on my foot from wearing ridiculous shoes. Talk about First World problems.

The only good thing is that I can get straight back on to The 2-Day Diet with ease, and not feel as though I’m starving myself like I used to on previous diets as there’s nothing worse than feeling hungry. What is it that Kate Moss once said, nothing tastes as good as skinny feels? Well, love, what a load of rubbish. She clearly hasn’t lived. Give me a pie and gravy any day!


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Anyway, something magnificent happened last Friday that I must divulge.

I bought a shirt, but not just any shirt, A SIZE 10 shirt. Yes, it was probably a big size 10 shirt, BUT IT WAS STILL A SIZE 10, and I won’t lie, I took a photo of me in it, and text it to about 10 people. I am clearly not a 10 normally, but boy did it feel good.

I’ve told Andy that after we marry, I’m going to get so fat, that I’ll just have to wear billowy dresses that I’ll have to make myself out of table cloths and my only choice of footwear will be flip flops. Obviously I jest as I don’t want to get mega obese and die at a young age from clogged arteries, and get buried in one of those extra big coffins that has to be wheeled in to the Church because I’ll be too heavy to carry.

A few years ago, I remember watching a documentary about Feeders. For those who don‘t know, a Feeder is usually a male, who encourages their partner to gain weight by consuming great amounts of food.

Well, I thought I’d hit gold here. If I couldn’t find myself a nice boyfriend, I’d have to find myself a Feeder. One lady got paid to eat ice cream over the internet and then rub it in her rolls of belly fat, and I thought once again, I think I’d be pretty good at this. Alas, it wasn’t meant to be, and the internet is safe from ever seeing my rolls of flab massaged with vanilla ice cream.

But still, a girl can dream.

I’ll leave you with that thought.

Until next time.