Marathon? I’d rather have a Snickers!

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By now, regular readers of my weekly ramblings will know that I’m no stranger to a chicken fillet. Those who know me personally will know I’m definitely not referring to the bra filler-upper variety. The fillet I’m referring to is of course the ‘in a bun and accompanied by copious amounts of vinegar soaked chips’ kind of fillet. All washed down with a bottle of coke – ‘diet’ naturally sure aren’t us brides always watching our figures?!
Now, let me make it abundantly clear that it’s not only a deep fried breast of chicken that tickles my fancy. If only! I’m also partial to crates of chocolate, mountains of mayonnaise and wagons of wine. Hello everybody, my name is Vanessa and I am a junk foodaholic! Unfortunately, this admission does not bode well for my impending nuptials. Having never gone through the process before, I’m given to understand that I’ll be photographed from every conceivable angle and a few than haven’t been invented yet after which I’ll find myself hanging on walls (digital and actual) plastered across photo albums and filling frames in the homes of every relative my fiancé and I have until the end of time and then some. The pressure to look my best is, like my backside, quite immense!

Luckily for me, my love of all things edible is somewhat offset by a love of exercise. Before you all hate me with the heat of a thousand hair straighteners, consider this – I HAVE to love exercise, if I didn’t it is quite possible that I would have long since eclipsed the sun and caused an apocalypse and then where would you all be? Running around in the darkness looking for Crunchie Bars, that’s where!

My problem has always been that my love of food slightly exceeds my love my exercise to the point that when I present myself to those dreaded scales I am always presented with a number that is slightly higher than is recommended, and a digital congratulation of my pregnancy. Since I cannot bear to embark on anything remotely resembling ‘a diet’ (yuck), and I am as yet without child, the only logical conclusion then is to up the exercise so as to afford said chocolate, mayonnaise and cheese. Yes, all together!

With that in mind and The Dress in the wardrobe, on Sunday past, I ran a half marathon. That’s twenty-one and a blister kilometres or just a sun burnt nose over thirteen miles. I wasn’t even being chased or anything. The aim of the game was to show myself the sheer amount of effort that is required to burn off one of my quite frequent, high calorie and really bloody enjoyable Saturday nights. It was supposed to be a much needed kick up the bum. On Monday morning, I couldn’t kick….anything. In fact, I couldn’t move my legs very far in any direction. Every muscle and bone in my body cried for what I had mercilessly done to them.

“To hell with this in a handbasket” said I. “I won’t be doing that again”. Then I limped to the wardrobe again and instead of being transported to Narnia, I was transported to Nerja with the sun beating down on me as I make my way to the church. Not being one to blow my own trumpet but you really should see The Dress (raging for youse having to wait a year by the way) but it really is fabulous. It would totally spoil my wedding day buzz if while wearing it down the street, I heard the locals shouting anything resembling “La Senorita Michelin”.

But let’s face it, as craictastic as tearing round the Donegal countryside in the lashing rain is, it’s hardly maintainable. Wanting to avoid the dreaded ‘d’ word (diet not desert) while still getting the odd whiff of a bar of chocolate, the only alternative is to start cutting back now – you know one pizza at the weekend instead of three, one slice of cheese on a sandwich instead of half a block kinda style. Every little helps and all that!

If on the other hand, I ever find myself tempted by any of these crash diets, juice detoxes, lettuce soups nightmares or indeed running around Donegal in shorts, it might be time to have a word with myself. We should want to look like ourselves on our wedding day right? Of course we do. If the self-doubt really won’t go away, consult the fiancé and ask him a simple question: will you marry me no matter what I look like? If he says ‘yes’ (like Mr Brady did) get that man husbanded!! If he says no, well, batter him to death with a large Toblerone!