I love them and hate them simultaneously.
Jeggings are comfy, and you can pretty much wear them with anything. If it hadn’t been for them, I’d have spent the first three months post-surgery dressed in a bin bag or pyjamas. Dress up, dress down, they do it all. They dry a lot quicker than common-or-garden jeans, and you don’t get that horrible, crispy, shove-the-pockets-into-their-rightful-place ritual once they’ve been washed. Being a strictly jeans kinda gal, what’s not to love?
It dawned on me the other day while I was walking the dogs -in allowing myself to wear them, I’m actually facilitating my own fatness. Yes they are comfy. They’re still comfy when you’ve overeaten – there’s plenty of ‘give’ in them. For this same reason, it’s easy to gain a few lbs and not notice. Instead of living in them, I should be listening to Cordelia (the slim, slightly posh voice in my head) – “Come on, dear, try and squeeze into your genuine jeans in that size and see what happens.” – I’m not striving towards getting back into my much-loved denims.
I’m kidding myself on. My plan is going well in terms of what I wanted to achieve after moving house – find as meeting, exercise every day, get into a routine. But it’s all going a bit too slowly for my liking. And that’s because, for whatever reason, I haven’t quite got myself back into the ‘zone’. (And now live in jeggings.) I lost half a lb this week, and STS the week before. At this rate, the summer will be over before I’m back running.
I don’t really know what to do to get myself back into the mindset that I usually have. Perhaps heading to my first Fife WWs meeting next week will help – I’ve had to wait because of work commitments, with meeting choices being limited in the locality. I’m hoping it might be able to channel my general enthusiasm back into the positive realms of weight-loss. But I think the key might be in the jeans. I feel slightly wretched. Woe is me.
I can get into one pair of my actual jeans. They are tight, but I can fasten them. So this week, I’m giving myself a shake. I’m going to make myself wear them. I’m going to let them cut into my flabby stomach and constrict the blood flow to my thunderous thighs as a constant reminder that jeggings are not the way forward.