I am very pleased to report that on Thursday 7th December
2012, I successfully donned a pair of jeans that I cannot remember being able
to get into. Nor buying for that matter. Be not misled though, they are not a
size 12 and I didn’t look any good in them. The triumph here is not aesthetic, it’s
not even really very impressive, but it’s MY triumph and I celebrated it all
day by wearing said jeans and looking uncomfortable. The ungainly ensemble was
topped (or bottomed) rather perfectly by my choice of winter footwear – flip
flops, due to the burn on my foot having yet to heal. However, as the place
that I chose to wear this bizarre mismatch was to our annual Candlelit Carol
Concert, I confess myself to have been less than concerned. The whole night was
a low-lit, glimmering, choral affair with voices raised on high and mouths
filled with festive treats. Said voices also raised us over £3,500 which is a
wonderful triumph of generosity over recession. In short, I can sum up the last
two weeks by telling you I’ve been wearing terrible outfits, but getting into
the Christmas spirit. Which is nice.
There are two tests that I regularly carry out to assess whether or not
I’ve lost any weight. Neither of these involves scales as I’m afraid ours are
broken, so I’ve resorted to ingenious alternatives. The first of these is the
Hug Test. Basically this requires an honest boyfriend, a metaphorically thick
skin and a willingness to be embraced. Step one: Tony hugs me. Step two: He
tells me if I’ve gotten a little smaller. He also tells me if I’ve gotten a
little bigger, but thankfully the news has all been good recently. The second
test is even more hit and miss than the first one. It involves how fast I can
walk, climb stairs and take part in other such travelly activities, and for how
long, without getting out of breath. I was coming in at a personal best until
it got so cold that I required ventolin. Now my average is completely thrown.
Neither of these gauges is reliable, scientifically measurable or
accurate, nor do they really push me to work harder. However, following the
jeans-related success of Thursday I must be doing something right. Little progress
is progress no less, and I’ll not turn up my nose. Also, for the first time in
a couple of months I’m moving in the right direction. In order to maintain this
over the Christmas period I plan to walk Tony’s parents’ dog as often as he can
stand it, swim at least 3 times per week no matter how small or child-filled
the pool may be, and spend a lot of my time sitting in the snow in my underwear
in the hope that I’ll burn enough calories simply staying alive in the cold to
warrant both my Christmas dinner and the amount I’ll no doubt drink when we get
to my parents’.
So, in other news, the 16th of December is rapidly
approaching and bringing with it the onset of my 32nd year. I can
honestly say that I have no feelings either way regarding turning 31. I am
neither elated nor tempted to try a chemical peel. In fact nothing could induce
me to try a chemical peel. Chemical peel. It brings to mind an overenthusiastic
maniac using acid to strip the skin from my face to reveal some kind of mutant
superhero/villain underneath. I, Charlotte, once a mild-mannered Community
Fundraiser, now arise to meet my true destiny....as..........The Red Devastatooooooooor!!!!!!!!
No thanks. In fact, 31 seems to be to one of those non-ages where you don’t
actually age at all, you simply remain the same until you hit another
milestone, such as 35. For this reason I believe we actually age in stages. For
instance, you remain 21 until you’re 30. Which would explain men if nothing
else.
My birthday, however non-agey it might be, could not pass uncelebrated,
so on Saturday we held a Hideous Christmas Jumper affair for our nearest and
dearest which, despite half the guests having to cancel, turned out to be
pretty damn great. This week’s photo is of Tony’s outfit, and it doesn’t
disappoint. Don’t be alarmed, the item down the front of his thong is in fact
the cat’s plastic ball toy with a bell in it. Which led me to name him Jingle
Bollocks, an endearing nickname which happily stuck. Needless to say, I broke
my diet horrendously that evening, with party rings (never too old), gooey
marshmallow things, decorate-your-own cupcakes and a lot of cheese. My one
abstination though, was alcohol. The sheer amount of sugar consumed in the
first hour seemed to put everyone off their drinks a little. Except Tony who
was still going strong at 5am when I phoned him from our bed to ask him to shut
up. For the first time in the history of our parties I woke with veritable
bluebirds singing in my head rather than angry crows eating it from the inside
out. I even managed to sit through Dead Snow, our unanimous morning film of
choice, without looking away too often. The same, alas, cannot be said for a
certain other lady, but she shall remain nameless. I will simply apologise for
putting her through it!
So yes, terrible outfits and Christmas spirit. Not a bad couple of weeks
to be honest. The true test will be Christmas, that overbearing,
chocolate-dipped, wine-laden glut itself. My inspiration though is a friend I
saw on Friday night. This gallant young pirate has dropped no less than 9
stone, NINE STONE, since March. In fact, it’s closer to 10. And he looks utterly
amazing for it. Also, I just found out he reads my blog so I couldn’t resist
dropping him in. Well done dude, it’s an epic achievement which I hope to
emulate. Although maybe not to the tune of 10 stone as I’d probably have no
boobs left. And what fun would that be.
Yours itchily (hideous Christmas cardigan that I’m still wearing),
Charlotte.
P.S. I made up three words.
