Last week I was put in the unfortunate position of having to run to catch a train.
It's not something that I do often and indeed I would ordinarily go out of my way to avoid any sort of physical exertion whenever possible. However, on this occasion I was running late and I was subsequently running fast and furiously towards a harsh realisation:
I need to go on a DIET.
You see, when you run, things start to move. Muscles get tensed, body hairs rustle around in the wind and excess skin suddenly leaps to life and darts up one's body from the hips to the shoulder blades like a frenzied Mexican Wave.
The Wave of Shame.
The Mexican Wave of Shame is one of many concerns. My hooters were bouncing up and down like puppies on pogo sticks and it wouldn't have taken much for them to escape entirely from my Wonderbra and knock me clean out down to the ground. No one wants to be the person who knocks themselves out.. NO ONE!!!
I won't be that woman. NOT ME.
I didn't even realise that I had these issues until I ran on that fateful day and now I have decided that I shall run no more. Instead, I am going to walk with conviction towards the nearest Weight Watcher's meeting pronto and see if I can turn my 'Wave' into more of a ' Ripple'.
It has to be done.
Firstly, I decided to make a food diary to see where I was going wrong.
It seems that I make two or three trips a week to the glorious Golden arches of McDonalds. And in basic terms, thanks to my GCSE Maths and Science, I was able to ascertain that:
Excessive Big Mac consumption+ lack of running = Mexican Wave of unwanted skin and mild shame.
I am now wholly convinced that my cellulite is actually a fully formed sesame seeded bun that has somehow got trapped in my ass. There it sits just under the skin like a cunning prisoner plotting his escape route down the backs of my thighs.
Breaking free from McDonald's isn't going to be easy. Not only do the delicious burgers provoke genuine feelings of euphoria upon consumption but the visiting the place itself takes me right back to my teen years when I found myself to be in love with "McChicken Sandwich Jim".
Yes, I worked in McDonald's when I was 16, and so did Jim. I was usually on the Big Mac Station and he was opposite me on the McChicken Sandwich Station. We met as we dressed and boxed our burgers and immediately fell in love.
There we would stand with our spatulas and tongs flipping meat and sprinkling onions whilst laughing at each other's jokes. We would squirt ketchup and blow cheeky kisses across the burger boxes and hold our pickled gherkin-stained hands together in the staff room during our breaks.
Had our relationship stood the test of time then I imagine that we would have been married under the Golden arches themselves. It would have been glorious!!
But sadly, Jim and I were not to be. And now I feel that me and Big Mac need to part ways too.
Sorry BM, this relationship is over. I will miss you. I will always love you.
It's time to set the sesame seeded bun free.
Farewell to you too bun, I am off to eat a Bulgar wheat and haddock salad and mount a cross trainer.
I'll promise to wave!