Chewing over

Referencing the Cheshire Cat I’ll say “we’re all fat here. I’m fat. You’re fat." We are all overweight, suddenly. How has that happened?

I must admit, and it’s a crushing admission for me since I’ve written pages on how it’s brutal but doable to lose weight and keep it off, that I’ve been wriggling close to the upper brackets of healthy BMI since – umm, let me see: about August last year.

My weight progress chart, religiously recorded via Wi-Fi in MyFitnessPal (aka Food Fascist), irresistibly resembles a series of ‘W’s over the last 12 months. Down, then a kind of up-and-down-again scrabble at the bottom, and then up on a trajectory equal to that of the descension. And repeat: except the next ‘W’ is positioned somewhat higher on the chart.

My friends are also complaining they are carrying extra pounds at the moment. What’s going on? I can be disciplined; after all those ‘W’s do start with the nosedive line before they begin the upward crawl again.

What’s wrong this time then? You and I both know: it’s the time without markers. I have nothing to lose weight FOR. No going out, meeting friends let alone holidays. It seems like the piece of cake I’m eyeing up is the most fun I’m going to get for the foreseeable future.

Last spring wasn’t so bad: we were frightened but also a little excited about how the world stood on its head. There was yoga, there was cooking at home - naturally healthier than takeaways, there was the flurry of house clearing activity. But now it’s just weeks and weeks of Tuesdays and all we look forward to is something reassuringly calorific for dinner.

I know there are women who can pull off extra kilograms while looking gorgeous, like Nigella who is my hero and not only due to her mastery of adverbs and explaining what size pan to cook your pasta for her recipe in. Sadly, I’m not like that: mine are rolls of fat rather than pneumatic curves.

I’m also told to stay the weight I am or else I’ll be a wrinkled prune. But I don’t mind wrinkles actually. I’d rather look like me than Nicole Kidman who is only slightly my junior, but is currently looking like a balloon dog with hair. Plus it’s not anything to do with body image obsessing (I’m slightly too old for that, thank heavens) but being scared that fatties get COVID bad!

To compound matters, all the freaky dieters have gone exceedingly quiet, which is good, obviously, as it suggests they are eating sensible food. But as a consequence I don’t even have the motivation of trying out a new wacko regime! What to do?

I guess it’s going to be a long wait for spring, a wait for the jabs and for things fun other than cake to start green-shooting nervously: a picnic with friends, a pint in a beer garden, a night out, maybe a weekend in Shropshire, maybe a road trip to Scotland. Buying clothes that are not pyjamas. Lipstick. Oh yeah.

Perhaps I’ll give this second shortbread a miss.