This blogger celebrated with a family braai complete with all the trimmings – assorted salad, baked potatoes, garlic bread and enough meat to bring a Peta representative to tears.
I haven't been to a braai in aaaaaaaages, a fact evidenced by the way I was shovelling food into my mouth this afternoon.
Is it me, or are my jeggings getting tighter?
Now I won't bore the reading public (all seven of you) with my insecurity and body issues (read: self-loathing) but I will say that I am less than satisfied with my assorted cuddly bits and this evening (after the Heritage Day munch-a-thon) something went click and now all I can think is ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod it's
a) nearly summer and
b) nearly Rocking the Daisies.
Two events (can you call summer an event?) for which I'd hoped to finally be a bambi-legged waif, like the rest of Cape Town's female population. Instead, I am still more of a Renaissance painting – you know, all curvy hips and thighs and bum and breasts (oh sigh the breasts).
Please nobody say, Real women have curves. I will kill you.
Anyway so was thinking fuckfuckfuck (does reporting my thoughts count for the no swearing thing?) what am I going to do? And I've decided that since it's exactly two weeks till RTD (I have a thing for perfectly ordered time frames) I'm going to use those fourteen days to detox a little and whip myself into some sort of shape (again, anyone who says, Round is a shape – you're dead).
I know, I know ... two weeks probably won't make a blind bit of difference to how I look. But it'll sure as hell make me feel better than I do now, which is something like a cow stuffed with starch and marinated in chocolate.
Yes that's right – 'yuck' is exactly the same word I'd use.
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