I dread every second Saturday.
It’s the day of the week where not only do I stand in front of the mirror being more critical than normal, but it’s the day that I have to document it. No best angles. No stomach in, chest out. No creative lighting. Just relaxed stance, front (snap) and side (snap). They are painful photos to take.
Don’t be fooled by this face, in reality I have the body of a 40-year old working mother of two. You know the type. Long hours at the office, eating whatever is quick and easy, no time for the gym, still carrying around pregnancy weight from fifteen years ago.
That’s me.
At twenty-four.
Seriously.
Don’t get me wrong, deep down I am genuinely glad for these awkward, unflattering photos. They are a physical time-line of progress. They make me aware of, and reluctantly accept, my overall shape: little in the middle but she got much back, just in case you were wondering (thanks, Sir Mix a Lot). But, more importantly, I also get to see that same shape getting smaller and smaller as the weeks creep by.
I think fortnightly photos is just one of those horrible but ultimately useful dieting things, like counting calories, and weighing/measuring yourself regularly. It gets easier the more often you do it, doesn’t mean it’s any more enjoyable though.
Who knows, maybe I’ll even share ‘em one day. Maybe at my pretend 10th anniversary at the office.. after they’ve installed a pretend gym in the basement and I can lose that extra weight from my pretend pregnancies.
Tags: the small things, weight
