Hired Big Bang Theory last night, just about the funniest TV series on the planet! First time I saw it I laughed so hard, tea shot out of my nose. Now every time we hit the video store, Dylan makes a beeline for Big Bang Theory and holds it up with a flourish and a grin. Seems when you're twelve, nose shooting tea never gets old.
So Sheldon's my favourite character; a socially inept, super genius as literal as they come. Last night's episode, Sheldon's in a car driven by the cute blonde neighbour, freaking out about her too close travelling distance. He's calculating death scenarios – weight in face of impact – and tosses out a number for Penny: "120 pounds". She glares at him, repeats the number with a definite are-you-out-of-your-mind flexed tone.
Sheldon, in blank-faced confusion, replies "Oh. I'm sorry. Have I insulted you? Is your body mass somehow linked to your sense of self worth?"
"Yes!" she squeaks.
Classic. So of course this totally resonates with me 'cos w've hit winter and the gorgeous coat I splurged on last year is far more snug this time round. Pretty sure winter and flab go together on exit, not entry. Which makes it a fast downhill slide (roll?) from here.
So I should be miserable, right? I should look in the mirror and be appalled? Instead, I find myself rather detached from it all. I have an enormous mirror above my bath. It's to make the bathroom look bigger. And apparently, anything in it. Every morning I confront my dripping image splashed from wall to wall. But there's no revulsion, no quick look away – nary a shudder to be had, really. At most there's a bit of head to one side, "gee whiz, my boobs are bloody enormous. As is my ass. Oh, I must remember to take Dylan's bean bag in to be recovered". And that's about it. Clearly my sense of self worth is linked to other stuff. Or my ego's as enormous as my ass. Either way, it's bad for the budget. So tomorrow I start "Project Pretty Coat".
It's time to look less like sausage stuffing.
Oh my god, I'm so depressed. Particularly pathetic since I haven't even eaten breakfast yet – so technically haven't done without. But a boiled egg? No French toast with lashings of bacon and syrup; frothy coffee with sugar? Really?! No wonder I haven't bothered with breakfast. What moron picks a public holiday of cold weather, comfy couch and new books on which to start eating boiled eggs? I don't even like egg.
Right. Just cut the offensive thing in half, and swallowed each piece whole. Like a snake. No tasting required. One protein breakfast down. A whole day of misery to go.
I've got to get out of here before I start frothing milk for coffee. Can't shop for me, whole point of dieting is to not buy more clothes. Off to JayJay's to splurge on skinny jeans for the only skinny one in the family. Dylan's going to be stoked.
Dylan's in front of mirror deciding which takkies go better with new jeans. So far Converse is in the lead.
I'm ensconced on couch, blanket up to (multiple) chins, tummy full of Wimpy burger, open bag of Woolies chocolate chuckles by my side and new Marian Keyes balanced on boobs. I'm exquisitely happy.
Only morons pick public holidays to start dieting.
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