WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU GET A BIT FAT

I'd like to think one of the main attractions of this blog, or so I've been told, is its honesty. I try to be honest to a tee on here, from whether I think something's worth the money, to talking about things that affect me day to day. I feel like this is my space to sit down and get things off my chest, all the while hoping someone, somewhere is reading thinking, "this is totally me girl!" There are very few times in life you really open yourself up to complete strangers, filter free and say here I am, warts and all. Well, this is one of those times. Minus the warts. Welcome to a little tale I like to call, What Happens When You Get a Bit Fat...

Once upon a time there was girl called Vickie. Vickie moved far away from home and was so lonely she made friends with some muffins in Sainsbury's. For seven months, she'd return to her bedroom each day after work, pop on the TV and devour those muffins, along with sweets, crisps and pretty much anything else she could get her hands on. Anything that didn't need to be cooked in a house she shared with four unclean weirdos. "I'll start a fresh tomorrow" she'd whisper to herself before turning out the light, slipping into a sugar induced coma. Except tomorrow never came. As the eighth month arrived, Vickie rejoiced as she returned to her kingdom - Leeds - and vowed to get her wobbly arse into check. Promises and after promises to go to the gym and lose weight came and went. Those muffins had opened the flood gates to Fattyville, and it seemed she was applying for permanent residency. 

Three years later and two and a half stone extra on the scales, Vickie looked in the mirror feeling deflated with a chin that was definitely inflated. Life changes when you get a bit fat, she noticed.

Each day starts with the same speech in the shower - "Today is the day I'll change. It's going to be amazing. I'm going to lose so much weight." ...Oh look, a cookie. 

Dressing becomes that little bit harder, trying to squeeze your arms into a jacket which used to be loose is soul destroying. You spend most of the day pulling your leggings up (only elasticated waistbands around here people) so you can keep your jelly belly encased away from the public. 

Which leads me to your dwindling wardrobe. You rotate the clothes you actually manage to fit in, which is five pieces in total, whilst refusing to buy anymore "because you'll be skinny soon and there's no point." Plus shopping when you're fatter than you once worse is like being on Bullseye and them saying, here's what you could have had chubster.

You dread going to places you once did, in case you see people you once knew. "Like, what if he looks at me and thinks, she must have had a baby." He would be correct of course - except it's more of the food variety than human.

You become paranoid every conversation is about your weight. Someone makes a fat joke and you're sure everyone is secretly looking at you to see if you're offended. So you get in there first and make a joke about being chubby. Everyone looks awkward and you fake laugh, because that's what fat people are supposed to do right? Be the bubbly, funny ones. You've become a waddling cliche. 

Eating out is a nightmare because you've already told the world over you've started a diet. You are 100 per cent on it. You've even Instagrammed your morning oats and some quote about leading a clean life. Then you spot the full rack of BBQ ribs and your mouth starts to water. You decide there and then you'll only order in from now on, with no-one to say, "So how's the diet going?" while you're knee deep in rib bones. 

Everything takes that bit more effort. Walking becomes a chore, so you decide to drive everywhere. Mostly to McDonald's drive-thru. The thought of the gym sends you into a cold sweat, but you join anyway and spend the next twelve months making excuses why you can't go. 

Your Facebook timeline becomes a shrine to your face, neck and shoulders. Anything below that gets cropped the f&*k out. The one time a friend tags you in a picture without your permission, you threaten to chop her up and stir-fry her in a wok. Do. Not. Tag. Me. When. My. Legs. Are. Showing. 

You'll turn to food with every emotion. Happy? Would you mind passing me the chips doll? Sad? Pass me the chips please. Stressed? Chips, NOW, idiot!

Hibernating becomes second nature. Why would you want to go out in to public when you can sit at home and wallow in your own self pity after being a greedy bint and not having the will power to say no that twenty seventh slice of pizza. What a sad existence. 

So there you have it, a truth bomb just exploded on the pages of Apartment Number 4. Right now I can't say there's a happy ending to this tale but there will be. It just needs a little time. And a lot less bread.