If she is a size 12, i am a supermodel.

God I wish I was naturally thin.

I don’t know about you, but the word ‘diet’ makes my skin actually crawl. The word ‘gymnasium’ makes me want to shove as many salt and vinegar square crisps in to my mouth, as quickly as I possibly can until I feel like I am happily chewing on broken glass. (Anybody who loves square crisps as much as I do will know all about the pain/enjoyment factor of said square crisps.)

Both words spoken in the same sentence, and I automatically want to hide behind the sofa and sleep. I’m being honest. Just hearing them used in the same sentence exhausts me. And if you even mention the dreaded WieghtWatchers , I instinctively reach for the Revels.(A grab bag that is. Not a single bag. Obviously.)

 If I close one eye, when looking in the mirror. I can lose half of my body fat, in an instant. If I take out my contact lenses, I am transformed in a heartbeat, in to a blurry, foggy, squirming mass of gorgeousness. I can be any shape I like, and I choose waif -like please! If I close my eyes and concentrate on the fantasy; I am a size 10.

 Unfortunately though, when I have my contacts firmly stuck (usually as crispy and dry as Ryvita, the perils of being awake 23 hours a day) in both eyes. I am what I am. And it is what it is. I am a size 14. (Code for; 16, possibly an 18 on a bad day.) And right now this instant, there is nothing I can do about it. (This simple fact however, will not stop me from having a major strop, throwing all my clothes out of the wardrobe, my dummy out of the pram, giving my other half a load of abuse and bursting in to tears at any given point. It will also not stop me from ordering a Chinese later tonight either, so go figure.)

I have never ever been thin. Even at my slimmest, according to the pie chart of doom at the doctors office, I was still obese. Which at 5ft 3 and 11 stone strikes me as a bit harsh! Ok, 5ft 2 and 12 stone.. But still! There is no need to be rude!! So even when I was slim(mer) than I am now. I was still curvy. I was still voluptuous. (I hate that word!)

 It was right after the evil pilot had been knobbing the slutty hostess at 32 thousand feet  (see; once upon a time in a fairytale) that I lost a lot of weight. Seemingly, playing the part of the jilted wife made me angry, and even seemingly-er, the only time I can not eat is when I am angry. (Who knew?) So even though I was obviously devastated *reaches for tiny violin* I was actually secretly thrilled by the affect all this anger was having on my dress size. So much so, that I fraternised with it. I encouraged it. I supported it, and I invited it in to my daily routine. I was the hulk! (but thinner and less green.. ) Sponsored by starbucks.

 I drank coffee like a woman possessed. I ate nothing but fruit. Meaning, if you needed me. I was usually in the toilet. (TMI? Tough!) It was the first time in my life I was proud of my body. It was the first time in my life I felt good on the outside. It was the first time in my life I could shop in the high street shops and experiment with my style. (Everything fit me! For the first time ever!) It was also the first time in my life, it began to dawn on me, that maybe ‘the outside’ wasn’t all that mattered. (Clearly being dumped and shit on from a great height (do you see what I did there? No pun intended…much!) had inadvertently made me less shallow. Another of the very many, great lessons, I learnt that year. The most important being – never trust a pilot.)

 My body began to fall apart on me, bit by bit. It was like a modern version of Death Becomes Her. I was suffering heart palpitations, dizziness and I was prone to hot flushes and fainting. (Most embarrassing moment ever; fainting in the buff while trying to ‘impress’ my other half!) I was permanently cold and permanently paranoid! (I convinced myself over a six month period, that I had a number of different ailments, ranging from the more common of cancers, to the Ebola virus. How my other half did not have me put down I will never know. I was Annoying.com)

 And yet walking in to the doctors office with a nasty cough, (another awful side affect – I constantly had flu symptoms!) Dr. Quock took one look at me and gasped ‘Wow, look at you, Im very proud of you! Congratulations! I bet you feel so much healthier don’t you?’ (Patronizing cow.) No. Actually knob face I don’t. I may be ‘in the green’ on the pie chart. But I couldn’t be further away from ‘healthy’, than if you rammed my mouth full of lard and kicked me in the elbow. Which just goes to show, actually, how absolutely inconsequential and unimportant those pie charts are….

Getting pregnant soon put the brakes firmly on the ‘I want to be the slimmest woman that ever lived’ trip and pressed the accelerator down hard on the ‘I can eat what I want now I’m pregnant and I intend to, so fuck off’ voyage. Yes, I wanted a healthy baby, but really my actions were selfish. I just wanted to eat. It was a relief. I felt able- bodied, ‘bright eyed and bushy tailed’ (and lots of other annoying ways to describe healthy), in what felt like an instant! Safe in the knowledge that when the baby was born it would ‘drop off’ right? That’s what everyone told me!!

Turns out everyone frigging lied.

There’s me shoving chocolate down my face at a rate of knots, telling myself (with my mouth full) that it didn’t actually count. As it was pregnancy chocolate, and pregnancy chocolate magically drops off! Lying bastards.

In all honesty I have probably lost about 3 stone (code for; 2 stone) since Addison was born. Its been hard work. And I probably have another 2 (code for; 3) stone to go before I reach my ideal weight. (I hate that term. Ideal weight. Because my ‘ideal weight’ if we are being totally honest with one another here, is about 7 stone. But only so I could eat my way back up to a healthy 10 stone!) The problem though, is my lack of motivation. I am SO unmotivated.

 The way I see it, I feel healthy and I think I look half decent. Im a new mother for gods sake. (Although in all honesty, I’m not sure how much longer I will get away with that) Plus Im busy. He is teething! Donuts dont count if you eat them before the sun comes up!!

 And seriously if Vanessa Feltz can happily look the world in the eye and state she is a size 12 (lying cow!) Then So can I. (I’m also a lying cow) Because its your state of mind that’s most important isn’t it? She is happy (apart from the break down!) and I am happy (apart from the PND) so clearly being thin is a state of mind!!

In which case, I am a River Island size 10! (Which everybody knows is an 8 really….)

Sweet and sour chicken anyone?

 Or maybe a revel?

Once upon a time in the life of a fairytale ….

There lived a princess who loved life. She was vivacious, and ambitious, happy and a little bit chubby. She would often give long ambling speeches to anyone who would listen about how happy she was. She had the perfect relationship, the perfect 2 bedroom flat and just enough money in her bank account. She went on luxurious holidays spending her days sipping martinis and lazing by the pool. Occasionally she would shop, all her money being spent on beautiful clothes and handbags all for herself. She would often wander around her kingdom gently humming to herself and pondering life’s little nuances like she had all the time in the world.

And then she woke up to the sound of a drunken stumble entering the bedroom, and realised with a sinking heart, she had no money, was more than ‘a little bit chubby’ and her husband had obviously been sticking his pencil in somebody else’s sharpener.

I have never been married to a golfer, a footballer or a rich celebrity type. I have never been hounded by the press. I have never been voted ‘most gorgeous ass 2009.’ (Although to be honest they missed a trick on that one. My arse is something to behold let me tell you. Something big to behold. Anyways..) I have however, been cheated on in the past. So feel that in some way I can relate to some of the ladies in the press in a small way.

I was dating a pilot. (Do I need to go on or can you guess what happened?) Apparently a bright orange uniform and too much make up did it for him in a big way. Not that I knew. Although I don’t own anything orange so never had the chance to find out…  We had been together for a lovely 2 years when I found out he had been shagging all and sundry behind my back. I was humiliated in a big way, as it turned out most of our friends had been aware of this. I blamed myself for a while and it was truly awful. Even though we had no children, no responsibilities other than a mortgage and a dog, we did have what I thought was ‘the perfect’ relationship. Now for me, personally, there was no coming back from that, or those, particular acts of unfaithfulness. That relationship was dead the second he admitted to countless acts of indiscretion at 32 thousand feet. (I use the word admitted loosely here, it was more of a ‘blood from a stone’ scenario, involving a large stiletto and a lot of tackling.) I now refuse to fly with ‘sleazy jet’ as honestly? If their pilots spend so much time in cubicle one? Who the hell is flying the plane?? But anyways.. there you go. The trust was gone. And so was he. (I kept the dog.) 

As a child I whole heartedly believed that one day my prince would come, so to speak. And that no matter what happened, somewhere out there, under the deep blue sky, was a man that would whisk me away and I would live my happily ever after. And even though that particular short arse, smelly footed, small dicked prince ran off with another (unlucky) princess. I still never really gave up believing that one day my prince would come. (teehee, ok sorry ill stop now.) So when Sir Fucksalot Chlamydia Willy (as I now refer to him) ran off with Princess Ms. Sucksalotofcocks, he actually did me a favour as it hardened my resolve (ooer missus. Sorry don’t know what’s up with me today) that I was living my real life fairytale. 

Did it hurt at the time? Yes. Did I get drunk and listen to Sinead O’Connor at 4am while warbling on to anybody who would listen about how I would make him regret it? Yes. Did I eat too much ice cream, pizza and MacDonald’s and endlessly dream of him ploughing a single man craft in to the side of a cliff? Yes. Did that mean my life was over? No it didn’t. Did that mean I wouldn’t get my ‘happily ever after?’ No it didn’t.

I got to the point after a lot of soul searching where I vowed I would enjoy my continuing search for my happily ever after. Which also meant in the meantime I could enjoy the fairytale of rebound, the fairytale of drunken nights single, the fairytale of enjoying me and all that I am, and the fairytale of finally meeting someone else and thinking ooo could this be it, this time? And this of course proceeded…

The fairytale of first words with the new hottie in the office, first hidden glances, first emails, (the digital age eh? If only the beast had IM’d a photo to Belle first.) Followed by first dates, first kisses, first rambling midnight phone calls, first holidays, first ‘I love you’s’ and first ‘ OK you’re doing my head in now’s’.  Followed by first night in the bedroom (ahem, yes I always wait that long) and the first morning sex. NB- for the record this only happens at the start. Followed by the first ‘did you just have a wee in front of me? Im in the bloody bath!’ and then the ultimate ‘oh my god my period is late’…. and before you know it. You have a house, a mortgage, a baby boy and other than the odd bout of post natal depression fog you are blissfully happy… ..ish.

 And if this one cheats on me? I may forgive and forget, I may leave him, or I may do a Mrs. Bobbit and chop his nads off. But either way I will keep going, keep living, keep fighting and keep searching for the happily ever after I was promised..

I don’t have any advice for Cheryl Cole, Coleen McLaughlin or Pam who lives at number 42. All I can say is do what’s right for you.  It will all work out one way or another. In the end.

 And really it’s nobody’s business but your own. Do you think Cinderella asked the fairy godmother for her opinion after prince charming was caught in the back of the pumpkin with an ugly sister? (See Cinders the untold story.) Nope she stayed with him, or may have left him, I can’t remember. But either way. She lived happily ever after.

 The end.