Diary Of A Fifty-Year Old (2)

11:03

wobble jelly wobble (Photo credit: bluebakeblog)

Weighed myself.

Jumped out in front of the Hub in my birthday suit, giving him the fright of his life.

Correction: Jumped out in front of the Hub in my birthday suit with no jellywobbles, giving him the fright of his life.

Shouted, Tah-dah!  64kilos!  I’ve lost ten kilos! You have to buy me two writing magazines!

Took a shower.

Hub took a cold shower (it’s my birthday; not his).

 

The End

Viewfromtheside’s theme this week is The End, given our impending doom tomorrow (which confuses me, because it’s not 2012 yet).

Some people are quite frightened by all the doomsayers.  I’m not worried because Christ said, ‘No one knows the day or the hour’, so you can be as specific as you like: I’m still watching Dr Who tomorrow.

I thought you might like to see my own version of the horror story that is ‘The End’; I came across this photo yesterday:

I was reminded of two things, which I will tell you after I have first insisted that I am not a body-hating miserable specimen of a woman, but a chubby lass who eats too much and exercises too little; I am well aware that the solution is in my own hands:

1. One of my tasks is to lose a little weight; I haven’t made any effort in that area yet.  Maltesers act as a siren’s song, I’m afraid.  Guess I’ll have to stop <gasp> buying them.
2. A scene from Love Actually, when the PM’s assistant talks of his love interest as having ‘a pretty sizeable a**e.’  It’s nice to know I could be in the movies.

And the silver lining, of course, is that when The End really does come, if I’m one of the survivors, I’ll have plenty of body fat to live off.  I bet you all wish you had a body like mine, now, don’t you?

Wisdom I Like

Speaking of diets, which I was (two days ago; keep up, people), I am not bothering: I like food too much.  I am overweight, yes, but I just don’t care that much anymore.  In the past month I have twice read the same piece of wisdom: after a certain age, a woman must choose between her face and her figure.  It means that skinny older women are wrinkled and haggard looking (look at poor Hannah Waterman and her huge weight loss; her figure is great but her face looks dreadful) and we chubby older women might waddle down the street and need to buy two seats on a plane, but we look like infants.  I’ll plump for infantile any day: pass the chocolate.