Let me tell you how NOT to do it.
A couple of years ago with a family wedding looming, we decided that we could all do with shifting a few pounds. Invited the sisters around for a conflab. So was born Future Skinny Bitches a slimming club of sorts.
All went well for the first couple of weeks. Four of my five sisters, a neighbour and a couple stray skinnymalinks who were actually trying to gain weight came along every Monday afternoon. We weighed in, measurements duly noted in a little black notebook and crucial subjects were discussed like which wine had fewer calories.
Week three, we noticed something worrying. Not an ounce was lost between the lot of us. Not an inch, not a gram, not a sausage. Apart from the skinny one who was actually the only one to lose anything. We soldiered on, in total denial of this monumental failure, offering encouraging words like “It’s probably just that time of the month.. It’s probably the scales”, or “That scales is definitely off kilter’.
Erring on the side of optimism, I ensured a supply of low fat rice cakes, vegetable cruditees, magazines like Slimming World and Weight Watchers lying around. All the ingredients for successful weight loss – you would think. Alas, it was not to be. ..
After a couple of futile months, we succumbed to temptation and abandoned the low fat element of the meetings. Recording the shameful details of weight gain became too embarrassing. I decided to hide the black notebook and ditch the cardboard rice cakes. In with the full fat gateaux, muffins, walnut whips. Before long, we reverted to our normal sisterly mode, sharing stories of how we had pigged out, trying to outdo each other with tales of forbidden treats.
Even the title ‘Future Skinny Bitches’ seemed a bit of a mouthful. It became ‘Fat Club’ or ‘Chubbie Clubbies’ or as Himself says ‘Are you meeting the fat sisters today?’ Brave man. We settled on ‘Fat Club’ as a name. And that is exactly what it has become. A fat club. Two years on the go now. Nothing is off limits, cakes, biscuits, chocolate, tea drinking, and of course the magic ingredient, malicious gossip. Not a weighing scales in sight. Encouraging words have been replaced by the brutal honesty that only sisters can get away with. “That poncho makes you look a bit on the stout side”… “Feck Off”.
I look forward to Monday afternoons.