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The ramblings of Mrs. Hoolihan

My rants on life and everything in between. Desperately trying to remind myself that it's just not worth the jail time.

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Weight

Day 1 of wanting to kill myself.


I’m no skinny minny, but I’m not a fatty either. I don’t look in the mirror and cringe – as a rule I’m rather happy with myself day to day. The only time I’m not happy is when I have to put a dress on (working in Construction means that this rarely occurs during the week) and then I start lamenting how I really shouldn’t have smashed the last bag of crisps.

It’ 8 weeks and 3 days till we say ‘I do’ and I need to drop a stone. 1 WHOLE STONE.Drastic action has been taken. With the support of my cousins, we’ve joined ‘Slimming World’; if it kills us, we’re losing in time for this wedding.

So here it is, day 1. I’ve read my literature and I’m determined to do this. With the diet of a pre-pubescent teenage boy, I’ve to also look past the aesthetics and re-educate myself when it comes to food.

This is going to be one, long and painful journey so forgive me now in advance of the amount of whining I’ll commit. It’s not a diet I keep telling myself as I stride past the plate of Oreos on display, but rather a change of lifestyle…

God; give me strength.

Losing weight. Or not and not giving a fuck.


The impending Hen Do is almost upon me. My last night of ‘freedom’ is literally around the corner and I’m still to lose any real weight.

At 5ft10, I’m hardly petite. I’m not fat but by no means am I certainly no anorexic skinny finny fuckety to do dah latte drinking thing either. You see the problem lies within; I just love food. And it, more importantly loves me.

I’m no gym goer either. I’m a full time Mummy, who happens to work full time too (I hate that because I work FT I’m not a ‘Full-time’ Mummy. Yes I bloody am; Harry my darling son is exactly why I work full-time – to ensure he enjoys the trappings of a loving home, holidays and breaks away plus whatever he wants – he’s no brat before you go down that route either.) So, in between being full time Mummy and a full time worker, it leaves me with little time (or energy) to work out. Here I am, all 11 stone of me.

For years before I had Harry, I was always 10 and half stone; no more no less (unless you’re counting my ‘fat’ period for 2/3 years that my family won’t let me forget, but I’ve no idea what i weighed as I never used to weigh myself really). Anyway my hen do is next month and my sisters and all my friends are these uber attractive, skinny minnie things (I’m even fatter than my pregnant sister!) and I’ve come to a conclusion.

The conclusion is this (and it goes for my wedding dress too). I can’t have fat arms. Ah ah no, not happening. I’m happy enough at the size I am, because let’s be frank, I simply don’t have the time or will power to ‘slim’ down. As long as I don’t have fat arms or a fat upper back bulging from my wedding dress, then I’m happy.

Bollocks to bowing to peer pressure; I’m happy enough as I am. I’m not perfect and there are body parts I hate (fat hips I’m talking about you here), but I’m nearly 35, my body has carried a baby, I’m not exactly massive so why fix what isn’t broke?

To all the fat haters out there, I’ve two words for you – FUCK OFF. You may be skinnier than me, but are you happy? Like truly happy? Perhaps you are, perhaps you’re not. But don’t go throwing stones when you live in a glasshouse is the advice I’m giving as none of us are perfect.

On that note, I’m off to stuff my fat face and be happy. And then I’ll hit the weights tonight!

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