Have I told you my eldest daughter is getting married? Well, yes she is. March 1st 2014. I’ll tell you more about eldest in another blog, but what I will add now is my absolute excitement and thrill for her.
So with wedding in mind, and only about 9 weeks to go, I find myself embarking on the Wedding Diet. And quite frankly my scale is not playing along. To the extent I’m close to returning it because all it does is go up or stay put.
Clearly it is faulty, because by now it should be flashing dramatic loses – it is digital after all – as well as playing a brass band tune along the lines of “Congratulations” while sending rockets skyward.
I can’t even say the inaccurate readings are related to my clothing, because everything is off before stepping on – try not to picture this folks. Not a stitch remains, not even an elastic in my hair. Between you and me I also have a piddle to remove excess water – is that going a bit too far?
Of course this is doing my head in and I have only one option left, bring out the shallow gene and point fingers at hubby’s waist – as one does – to avert attention at my own personal centimetres. Yes, yes, I am an old cow, but at this point I’m happy to live with this notion.
Take yesterday for instance. Hubby pulled on a new pair of chino’s that he swore fitted him a week ago in the changing room.
“Hmmm,” he said, squelching his belly, eyes forlorn. “I hate to say this, but I think they are too small.”
“HAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHA.” I said, eyes beaming, almost doing a jig on the spot.
OK, I’ll agree, not my finest moment, but in my defence I shall fall back on “Be kind, I am the mother of the bride after all.”