Mind the (Thigh) Gap
Okay, so I may know my way around a countour palette and own more cosmetics than Estee Lauder herself, but when it comes to being catwalk-ready from the neck down – forget it!
Now there are some girls who have a body for Baywatch, face for Crimewatch. What’s the use in bursting a blood vessel at the gym if you’ve got a face like a bag o’ spanners? No, get your hair and make-up runway-ready and to hell with the fitness regime. It’s not called a ‘regime’ for nothing. I don’t recall Hitler’s one being a barrel of laughs either. Life’s for living, not pouting into your phone like a constipated duck whilst ‘working out’ for the camera. I can’t work that out.
Seeing as the majority of people only chat to the bit above your chin (or chins, in my case – I blame constantly looking down at my phone) – why bother slogging your guts out on your glutes, especially if you’ve got a permanent case of resting bitch face. Don’t sweat it – just smile occasionally! I know exercise releases endorphins, but so does biting into a quarter-pounder with cheese.
I wouldn’t say I was a total lard-arse, but fitness model material I certainly ain’t. These days we’re under increasing pressure to pump iron, our newsfeeds clogged up with skinny, tanned superfit bods, their proud owner beaming smugly from your phone as you tuck into your hummous dip….accompanied with a family-sized bag of Doritos. Or should I say DOH-ritos! I must remember to replace those with a carrot next time. Oh well.
Far from springing off the sofa and nipping out for a quick 5k’s, I’m more likely to flip my phone over and reach for the sharing-size Salt and Vinegar Kettle Chips in defiance. My Sainsbury’s delivery dude probably thinks I’ve got 6 kids with all these ‘family fun-packs.’
“Prep Like a Boss!” is The Body Coach’s strapline, gesturing to row upon boring row of sterile Tupperware boxes stuffed with various gut-churning greens. Oh, I prep like a boss alright mate….the boss of a chip shop.
Of course, I don’t want to be a blubbery old bird. I’ve hit the gym….instructor. Well he was a smarmy git anyway….and it WAS an accident (I got a tad over-zealous with my free weights.)
Having a fit younger boyfriend is not without it’s pitfalls either – Andy goes to BodyPump regularly and in a moment of madness I agreed to go to a couple of classes, see what all the fuss was about. Within minutes my eyes were bulging, teeth clenched as I strained to lift the weights above my head. I glanced casually around to check no-one was watching….and realised that everyone else had weights the size of manhole covers on each side, bar bending in the middle, whilst my spindly arms struggled with my piddly 3kg jobbies. The shame!
As I collapsed in a cardiac emergency I vowed to work out in the privacy of my own home in future. I bought a set of dumbells. They’re working. Every time I trip over them they remind me how dumb I am. Andy suggested we take up running. So far the only running I seem to be doing is running out of money before the end of the month.
Then there’s the diet. How anyone can drink those bile-inducing protein shakes is beyond me. I’d rather lick the bottom of a birdcage. Being hangry is no fun for anyone.
If God didn’t want us to eat his cute animals why did he make them so goddamn tasty?
I know vegetarians preach about ‘not eating anything with a face’ but someone should remind them that even potatoes have eyes. How do you know if someone’s a veggie? Oh don’t worry, they’ll fecking tell you!
Too much red meat is bad for you, I get that. It’s not great for the cow, either. I have a weakness for sweet n’ sour spare ribs, but who said they were spare? Not the pig, that’s for sure.
Fruit and veg may be good for you, no-one’s disputing that, but when was the last time you salivated over a salad, eh? Thought not. You’d never walk in at an inopportune moment to find your fella ogling a naked fruit salad on the Lad Bible site, would you now? But stick a big flappy kebab on his Food Porn feed and he’s definitely perking up….
We all know a muffin top is unbecoming on anything other than, well, a muffin, but if you dress well ( ie shoehorned into Spanx in XXS) then at least your dietary misdemeanors can be pretty much concealed. Until, that is, you peel off your layers to reveal what looks like a cheap Iceland sausage bursting out of it’s skin. Then it may be time to reign in the nightly gallon-drum of Chenin Blanc and invest in a padlock for the biscuit tin.
As Kate Moss famously once said….
“Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.”
She’s obviously never tasted my local Indian’s creamy kormas.
As soon as my jeans start to pinch, I resort to my tried-and-tested exercise regime…I go on a clubbing binge. Nothing snaps that waist into shape and planes inches off those hips faster than a weekend’s raving, dancing furiously to house and techno tunage at any one of London town’s myriad of hip haunts. Eager to keep up with my younger counterparts I dance Duracell-stylee all night long, the only calories passing my lips coming from the odd chewing gum or an energy-boosting vodka Red Bull, sweat pouring down my ruddy face. Sexy.
Come Monday, I may have bags under my eyes, but the ones on my butt have miraculously disappeared. Result!
Obviously being slim is no guarantee of health either. There’s someone I see on my commute with a figure that’d make Elle ‘The Body’ Macpherson green with envy, but then she opens her mouth to reveal a set of Swiss-army teeth: rotten stumps and jagged bits all over the gaff. It’s like a row of bombed-out houses. Yikes!
Whilst I’ve always considered working in a job that involves being on my feet for at least eight hours a day to be a disadvantage, now I credit all the running about after my customers with the fact that I’m not getting mistaken for Gemma Collins just yet. And seeing as I won’t be able to afford to retire until around five years after I die then I should be fine. I’ll probably reach my target weight round about the same time.
And as for the wrinkles appearing round my eyes, well of course Botox has entered my head….but I only have to take one look at Amanda Holden’s expressionless waxwork mug and I decide to leave well alone (for now). I do have a few mates with foreheads as suspiciously smooth as hard-boiled eggs….but if I’ve got the hump I want people to know about it, ya get me?
So there you have it. If you get a buzz out of busting a gut at some hernia-inducing class at the gym then good for you.
Me? I’ll stick to bustin’ moves instead…