cal(h)o(r)rific!

Alas, I'm ready for the chop. Over the past days, the mirrors in the hospital elevators, unlike their trimming counterparts in clothes stores, revealed bumps and blobs that I had never not ever seen before. I was not ready for my close-up, Mr DeMille!

Groan all you will at what follows, but it is a fact that I love my food and I plead guilty to eating for more than one person.

BEFORE & AFTER DISCOVERING MY GODDISHNESS

So, while my aspirations to be a domestic demi-goddess refuse to be put on the backburner, I think the realization has finally dawned on me that double cream is portionable, that butter is not a way of life, and that bread and sugar, although delicious, need to be consumed within bounds of reason.

Don't get me wrong, I do worship my body (although bigger breasts and size 39 feet would have been nice). But the clothing industry does not love me. Nor does it love my booty. Except for Monsoon maybe, which does a good job of creating interesting looks, that fit everybody.

This brings me to my next quandary: I will not succumb to the lure of Weight Watchers, gastric bypass surgery (they won't give it to me, my BMI is off by about 12 points), or light products (that are designed to make you heavier, as far as I am concerned). How will I take on the scale to ensure plummeting numbers?

I think the following weeks will have to be about moderation, sadly*. The word diet does not exist in my vocabulary.

I'll leave you to ponder this, while I go cut myself another slice of my chocolate orange cake...

* The fact that the kind doctors at our centre for reproductive medicine insist that excess weight and artificial insemination do not a baby make is also a contributing factor. But don't worry, this will not become a moderation blog.