SLINKY. That's how I'm feeling. Lithe and delectable, ready to throw myself into adventures (hello, boys!) and skin-tight capri pants. But realistically, anyone seeing me for the first time would think Camryn Manheim sooner than Audrey Hepburn. And while Camryn is beautiful and successful, she's also the actress who titled her memoir Wake Up, I'm Fat! and who, on winning an Emmy award for her work on US legal drama The Practice, brandished it aloft, announcing, "This
It makes no difference that there's a bounce in my step again, or that lying on my back I can tap a happy rhythm out across my visible hip bones. Strangers have no way of knowing how pleased I am to make the re-acquaintance of the wonderful deep dent
– my waist – that appears when I roll on to my side, or understand why I giggle every time I lace a belt – a belt! – through its loops, in order to hold up my trousers.
I am, of course, most appreciative of those friends and colleagues whose compliments and low-fat meals help buoy me up. (It must be a sign of middle age and our shocking new level of maturity that my peers cheerfully proffer steamed salmon and broccoli instead of temptation. I can assure you, 'twasn't ever thus!)
The fact remains that out in the wider world of first impressions and retail therapy I'm just another fat-bottomed girl combing through the clothes at the back of the rack. I'm slim for me, not slim for a thin person.
And gleeful as I am, I'm still nearly a stone above my self-established goal weight. Every time I step on the scales (and it's unwise to do that too often) I think: "Have I hit the wall?"
Because I'm sane enough to appreciate that there will come a time when, unless exercise is added to the mix, this steady loss will come to a grinding halt. When my metabolic equation balances – when calories in equal calories expended – homeostasis will rule the day.
This may occur at some distance from my target which is, in case you're wondering, not a particularly small number.
Even at that weight I will still shun appearances at swimming pools and beaches. I will still cover my ears against the siren wail of the cropped trouser, the mini dress and the legging. No, those capri pants are purely symbolic.
I'm sure I've said this before: like anyone whose self-esteem can swerve from grandiose to grumbling in a nanosecond, I am not the queen of self-discipline and rely on outside stimulus in order to hold my resolve. This renders me dangerously vulnerable.
By the same token, it's frustrating to work hard at my diet every day, only to pass as someone at the high end of normal. That's a damning thing to commit to print, I guess, but I did promise you honesty.
So much for claiming the high maturity ground several paragraphs ago.
What I need to do is reconfigure my psyche. If I continue hoping to gain "rewards" for dieting in the form of wolf whistles and a devoted fan club, I'm doomed to keep spinning round dizzylingly on the thinner-fatter wheel until such time as I drop off, dead.
The tedious truth – and it shouldn't be tedious, it's not really tedious, but nor is it exciting or glamorous – is that I feel great.
I'm wearing better clothes. I may have even lowered my cholesterol, though I've yet to check. These are the rewards of dieting, this sense of well-being and of no longer feeling like a blot on the horizon.
How often do I have to repeat this until I actually believe it?
