Nutritional Overachiever

I poured myself into my new joggy bottoms, the ones that were reduced to £3 for being a rather peculiar shade of navy blue and discomfortingly bum-bifurcating. They are a size 18 and rather tight around the waist.

I squeezed into my new sports boob-flattener, although not without a titanic three-way struggle for supremacy between me, the bra, and my bosum. The bra is also a size 18, and crushes me around the ribs. In the end, I was obliged to physically grasp each of my boobs, which were escaping wobblesomely towards my double-chins, and mercilessly ram them down into the constrictive captivity of the industrial elastic.

I rootled in the cupboard and eventually extracted a dust-encrusted pair of (what were once) sparkling white running shoes. They were cheap, hence quite noticeably uncool, and have absurdly long, stretchy laces which I spent 15 procrastinating minutes attempting to shorten by re-lacing.

I looked in the mirror to view the overall ensemble and winced, as last night’s shopping trip into Stratford had been rainy (and umbrella-less), and my (well-overdue-for-cutting) hair had gone… strange. Think: shapeless hybrid between an Old English Sheepdog

shaggy-dulux-dog

and Farrah Fawcett circa the Cannonball Run,

farrah

but sadly deficient in both the cute and the sex appeal, respectively. (Note to self: double-check I have that the right way around before hitting ‘Publish’.)

But hey! No-one will care, surely? No-one checks out the fat woman at the gym. No-one will even bother smirking at the fashion disaster-encased lard. I’m having my hair cut on Tuesday. No-one will ever remember I looked like this.

I slunk unobtrusively through the main doors and furtively up the stairs.

“Hi! You’re a new member? Stand just over there for your membership photo, please!”

Arse.

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