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Sex and the Self Conscious Woman

September 22, 2016

 

It’s no secret- whether you’ve witnessed my constant whinging or been plagued by my twitter feed- I remain to be carrying a little extra holiday weight. And by that I mean I physically look like I’ve eaten a small village. I’ve TRIED to lose weight. Honestly, I have-how many sit ups do I really have to do before I look like a Kardashian?! And regardless of how many countless times I’ve tried to run away, carbs just continue to find me. It’s like a really vicious and sooooo not-fun game of hide and seek.

I always sneered at people who named and blamed their extra timber as ‘comfort weight’. Now I know the truth, and more bloody fool me. It is SO easy to pile on the lbs when you’re in a happy relationship – everything is takeaway this, dinner out that and all served on the side of 4,927 glasses of wine. Top tip: avoid dating a twenty stone rugby player if a slim waistline is your future goal.

 

I really shouldn’t complain though. While some days I sit in front of a mirror wearing lingerie (and looking like a piece of pork crackling doused in lace) weeping over my ever-expanding arm circumference, most of the time I’m throwing caution to the wind and playing deep throat with an extra-large hot dog and cheese fries. I am seriously lacking in motivation. Every evening, I lie in bed (post snack, obviously) and set a plan for the next day. Tomorrow is always the perfect time to start my brand new exercise fad. And I really mean tomorrow- I’ve been vowing to change my lifestyle since January 4th and the only proper exercise I’ve completed as of yet was one fatal bootcamp class where I essentially paid a fiver to writhe around the floor in pain trying to catch my breath after four lunges and a couple of crunches.

 

So, as amusing as you may find my situation- I seriously need to sort my shit out. On a few occasions since the New Year (after crushing my internal organs with layers and layers of spanx), I’ve been able to embrace my inner goddess but, especially when nude, my self-confidence wavers dangerously low. I spend my days preaching the importance of feeling comfortable in your own skin, so why do I find it so difficult to put it into practise? On anyone else, I would celebrate my wobbly bits. Who gives a damn if you have a couple of rolls when you’re doubled over with your knees stroking your fella’s ears? Well, me apparently. And pathetically so.

 

As my appetite increases, my sex drive diminishes. Feeling horny is a rare occasion now I’ve developed a taste for 2,000 calorie sittings. I have literally gone from a serial shagging nymphomaniac to a chastity ridden nun. Take a moment to mourn the vagina which is now a va-dry-na. I think I’ve lost my appetite for sex because I struggle to believe that my other half can find me sexy when wrapped in layers of lard (despite him telling me more often than not how beautiful I am).

I’ve taken to wearing oversized t-shirts in and around the bedroom to hide my insecurities, and then leaving them on while my boyfriend has his way with me- only to shriek in horror when they ride up during missionary and display my flesh for all to see. This behaviour is far from normal, especially for me. If I don’t start practising what I preach, sooner or later I’ll end up trading in the D for a box of kebab meat and a large pizza meal deal, and the world (without sexually active Nell) will almost positively come to a halt.

 

I have nothing against curves, body rolls or stretch marks. If anything- I’m an ambassador for them. I am the proud owner of all of the above and without each one; I wouldn’t be the same person. It’s rather disheartening to no longer feel completely comfortable in my own skin and I can’t fucking wait for the day that I’m once again not constantly fussing over my gunt when being fucked from behind and am able to ride my boyfriend without insisting he closes his eyes.

 

Yeah, I know. I either need to suck it up and embrace the jiggle (as I’ve been doing for the last half a decade and two to three stones), or consider both my physical and emotional health and drag my ass to the treadmill.

 

Salad is boring, and exercise is almost never fun- despite what Mo Farah whinges about in the Quorn advents- but going from the most confident and self-appreciative woman I know to a timid (as timid as I could ever be), self-doubting betch is worse, and it’s going to be worth 90 odd days of burger-free hell to get the old me back.

 

So now I can go back to annoying you all with my shrill and constant preaching. No one ever feels their best after Christmas, and it’s totally ok that sometimes it might take you a month (or two, whoops) to get back into your groove and slip back into the skin that you’re comfortable in. Have faith, and always try to love yourself more than you love hotdogs.

 

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