Monday, 18 February 2019
THERE’S no denying it, it’s pretty obvious I like a biscuit or 12 — I mean, just a quick glance at any one of my six chins is testimony to that.
I’ve never knowingly turned down the offer of any junk/fast/yum food in my entire life and, at the ripe old age of 50, I’m not about to start now.
But when I caught sight of myself in an old, closed-down bank’s window the other day while returning from taking Cookie for a walk, it suddenly dawned on me, goldfish-memory-style, that although I was winning the competition for who was the most bedraggled out of the two of us, I was clearly losing the battle of the bulge.
My ripped, torn khaki parka tied around my waist was doing me absolutely no favours on my 5ft high, 3ft wide frame and even without my questionable attire, no matter how jauntily-worn, it was clear that I needed help.
So I called Philip of WalKeys fame, the finest dog walkers/sitters in Oxfordshire, and got him to take Cooks out the next day.
Well, there’s no need to torture yourself with your ever-expanding bulk flubbering back at you from disused bank windows every day now, is there?
And also, with Cookie out of my hair and being brilliantly looked-after, it would free up some time for me to go to an Overeaters Anonymous meeting. Because really, enough is enough. Except, of course, when you’re eating those Co-op chocolate-coated sour cherry shortbread biscuits, then there’s simply no such thing as enough.
But anyway, back to OA.
After watching Addicted To Food on Netflix, about a food addiction treatment centre in Texas, I got a little obsessed and YouTubed myself silly, watching intelligent, beautiful, annoyingly young women relate their tales of bingeing and purging and, eventually, recovery.
And even though I’ve never been able to bring myself to actually throw up (what? And waste all that good nosh?!) I certainly am proficient at the bingeing bit.
It’s all about following — or “working” — the 12 Steps a la Alcoholics Anonymous, which involves a lot of looking to God for strength and admitting to Him that you have absolutely none.
At last, I think to myself, I’ve finally discovered my problem — I am powerless over food! Although, strangely, not all food — I mean, I can’t remember the last time I binged on apples. Or celery.
Still, not one to ever get too bogged down in pesky, diddy details, I figure I might qualify for membership of this exclusive club and make my way there.
But when I get to the Methodist church and go into one of the Sunday School rooms upstairs, I wonder whether it really is the place for me, considering they only have UHT milk in those tiny little capsules to add to your cuppa and worse, there’s not a biscuit or cookie, hell, not even a party bag of Haribo, anywhere in sight.
It’s an eye-opening meeting, though — lots of tears, laughs and epiphanies involving members dropping to their knees, praying to God and miraculously never bingeing again and a good time was had by all.
Now I don’t want to sound ungrateful as a friendly face or five and a free cup of tea is always a welcome treat in my book but as far as curing my scoffing problem, the jury’s well out.
They say you should go to at least six meetings to decide whether or not it’s for you, but I don’t know if I — or my jeggings — can last that long.
I’ve got a diabetes blood test later on in the week, the first part of the test being whether you can actually keep your gob shut and not eat anything for a full 13 hours straight before the actual needle goes in.
They call it a fast. I call it an interminable, unbearable slow.
But you never know, maybe I’ll surprise myself and before I know what I’m doing, I’ll be on my knees, praying for help from whom or whatever I’ve designated to be my higher power and darkening those cookie-crumbless doors of that church again, gagging for some long-life milk in my tea.
Then again, maybe I’ll just continue in my blissful state of denial.
But that’s another story…
13 November 2017
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