Let me start by saying “Phwoar!” And I mean that. “Phwo-ar!” “Ph-wo-aaa-rr!” We’re having a bit of heatwave in Ireland at the moment. It’s gone over seventeen degrees for four days in a row. And the hot weather makes everyone better-looking. I don’t know where all the beautiful people go in the winter, but now it’s summer and they’re back. Hurray! Phwoar! (Connor fans himself vigorously.)
When you spend your life surrounded by students, this is even more obvious. I managed to find an excuse to walk the entire length of campus three times today. And on the way, I happened to see lots of athletic and beautiful students basking in the sun. It would have been rude not to look.
Every time the sun shines like this, I have the exact same thought. I tell myself “Next year when the sun shines, I’ll lounge around with no top on, in a park, or in the college grounds, or in a Tesco car park.” For this to actually happen, a number of prerequisites would have to be met. First of all, I’d have to lose 12 stone (168 pounds or 76 kilos). I would also need for all the excess skin that holds my weight in to retract and for none of it to be left hanging around. I would also need all my stretchmarks to disappear. I would of course have developed the muscle tone of a young Greek god. I obviously wouldn’t have any pimples on my back or shoulders. As well as that, I’d have been thoroughly waxed and spray-tanned. Broadly speaking, I would look like the late lamented Noah Lawson from Home and Away.
It’s not that I’m an exhibitionist. I just want to be objectified. I would really like to be seen as a ravishable piece of meat.
I think this thought every summer, and yet every next summer it would still be fairly vile if I were to take my top off because I’m as blobby as I ever was. I’ve been (cheating) on a diet, more-or-less, for twenty years. I started a weightloss blog almost two years ago, and yet I’m heavier now than I was then. In spite of the fact that I’ve been writing about it regularly for 23 months I have made no progress.
Exercise is going very well. Last night’s run was my best yet. It’s just a slow jog, but I’m improving every single time. And I feel better for it. I might actually achieve my goal of running 5K in 9 weeks. Which is nuts. Me. Running for five kilometres. Me. Connor.
I didn’t go to WeightWatchers this week. I didn’t really feel like hearing about all the weight I’ve gained (mainly through consumption of chicken fillet rolls, with mayonnaise and cheese please). I need a strategy. Another one. Two different doctors have now threatened me with surgery to fix my weight problem. And also I need to be objectified.
If you see me around at any stage in the next few days, feel free to catcall, wolfwhistle, pinch my bottom, look at me dreamily and generally treat my like a lump of meat. I’ll simper appropriately.