I start to feel fat and frumpy at around this time every year. There is no longer any excuse for the generous warming portions and chocolate indulgences, Easter and the major birthdays boxed up and put away for the year.
And the flimsy clothing has started to appear in shop windows. Bare brown legs and taut midriffs seem to be the fashion, again. And, again, my own legs and midriff are a far cry from brown and taut. They have never been taut. And it takes a lot of effort and expensive flights to get them brown enough to be exposed.
And every May I wonder if this could be the year. I might finally have enough willpower to eat like a waif, keep up the regime of specific, targeted exercises and find the miracle cream to apply 4 times a day.
I thought last year was the year. We got married last year and surely if it's ever going to happen, it's going to happen the year you get married. But no.
I'm just hoping that one May my desperate dream of a perfect body will be blissfully replaced by a resignation to my imperfect one: those legs will never be mine.
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