I have not blogged for far too long. For this, I apologise; extra reps at the gym for me! ......Iiiiiiif I knew what "reps" were. Or had time to go to the gym regularly ATM (more of which below).
And here we are below! So in the past month or so I have not been getting exercise as routinely as I would have liked; a combination of ten days singing at the alma mater, a horribly upset stomach (great for the waistline, not so great for my social life: I was forced to miss the wedding of friends and I had THE best hat as well), and a 9-5 job for the summer has made getting to the gym tricky, to say the least. In August, I plan to hit it hard once again; I am rapidly once again hitting high levels of facial chub, also known as Churchill Dog Jowls or The Curse Of The Philips Family - The Hunt For The Missing Jawline (in cinemas now!).
This lack of exercise, coupled with a need for formal, and therefore structured, workwear, has meant that I have had to turn where I've never dared before venture - the scary section of the underwear department which sells control pants. Bridget Jones Knickers, tummy-sucker-inners, the modern corset, knicky-tams (loooong story); we all know them as something, but I, in my foolishness, had always knocked such sturdy foundation garments. I was young; firm of flesh; curves, plentiful yes, but in the right places; never to be seen in such sexless, Daily Mail-tested affairs..... WHO IS THAT MASSIVE-ARSED SACK AND WHY IS SHE STARING AT ME?!?
Oh, shit.
I have bowed to the inevitable and invested, and here is why. At the law firm where I file things in a windowless room, though am occasionally allowed out from my cave like some latter-day legal Gollum to re-organise textbooks (riveting, I know), everyone dresses smartly, sharply, and in either black, white, beige or a combination of all three. After three days in ditzy-print dresses and slightly conspicuous shoes, when the other student was wearing shirts and high-waisted trousers and had classy-looking black heels, enough was enough and I hot-footed it to the Debenhams blue cross sale (still happening, if anyone is interested). Here I found a black wrap dress with beige polka dots for an astonishing £9.50, and I have never been so excited, although in fairness it was the end of a long day and all I could think was "YES! Now I shall look like EVERYONE ELSE! Conformity rules!", showing just how shattered I was. However, there was one problem. I looked like someone had strapped feed bags to my hips and bottom. Can I get away with this, I wondered, or will horses follow me down the street, neighing in anger as I take what they suppose to be their dinner away with me. At this point, I headed for the undies section, wishing as I never had before for a suitably ironic hipflask full of margaritas (I tried that once; it is a bad idea. The flask stuck shut and I'm pretty sure there is still some mixture in there, slowly corroding the cheap, cheap metal).
The first pair I picked up looked like some form of tubi-grip for injured wrists and ankles, and were about as big. I tried stretching them, as I knew I would have to later on when trying them, and they literally snapped back and thwacked me in the eye, like in films. It would have been funny if I didn't look like a rabbit with myxomatosis for the rest of the shopping trip. That pair went swiftly back on the rack. The next pair were like beige cycling shorts, the sort that are given to people after they have had liposuction, and I'll be damned if I'm going to suffer that humiliation without at least having the fat vacuumed out of me first. I finally found a pair that looked like normal knickers, but sturdier (in that they were an awkward gunmetal grey and felt like iron), and after what felt like hours pushing and pulling and re-arranging (fat can be moulded, if you try hard enough seemingly), and twice almost falling over and bringing the curtain rail down, I was in. And the effect, while not spectacular, was effective enough to prevent Neddy and Dobbin from feeling cheated out of their snacks.
I also purchased some fabulous bras from the Debenhams own Gorgeous brand - the cup sizes go up to something huge, as do the back sizes, and are both pretty and functional. They also come with matching sooper-sexy briefs (FOR FREE) and are, unlike usual huge bras, not of the divide and conquer variety, which make you resemble a shelf to the point people balance things on you at parties, but actually give really rather excellent cleavage. I love, love, love them and I shall be back to buy more.
The control pants were not hugely comfortable to wear, although they did have the rather pleasant side effect of reducing my appetite by not allowing me to eat anything. They folded over at the top a little, giving a sort of odd non-chocolate mini roll effect which necessitated dealing with when sitting down or standing up, and going to the loo was a nightmare to the point that colleagues must either think I'm pregnant or on drugs, I was in there so long. However, it's almost impossible to overlook the shape they give, so I will definitely wear them again, as long as I'm not eating, drinking, widdling, sitting down or going on a date. So basically never, then.
I think it might be time for me to be reunited with the gym.
