Demented Mum: Now Wolverine wages war on my waistline
YOU'RE putting on a bit of weight. Let's face it, you've piled on the pounds. But, as you complain to your long-suffering friend over a latte, it's not your fault.
The thing is, after every row with the Wolverine lately, you reach for toast or chocolate or a milky coffee.
Now your jeans are tight, in waist and thigh.
You recently tried on a dress and had to go up a full size, you gripe.
Yet, you wail, the Wolverine's looking wonderful these days.
After 12 months of transition year indolence, she's playing sports twice or three times a week. Her skin is glowing, her legs are muscular, her waist is taut.
But she's turning you into the goddamn Michelin Lady.
Your friend sighs. She mentions the dangers of comfort eating.
There are two ways around this, she counsels. First, you have to stop being a victim and avoid all Wolverine-style confrontations.
Walk away when she starts hyperventilating. Second, do something pleasurable that is also non-fattening.
Leave the room. Leave the building. Leave the, er, well, she admits, you can't exactly leave the country, though she knows and you know that you would if you could and that wild horses wouldn't drag you back.
Drink water or eat an orange when you get stressed.
Oh, and, er, stop blaming the Wolverine for your problems.
Thanks, you snarl.
That'll really work, water being so deeply satiating to a stressed-out comfort-eater.
Your pal sniggers unsympathetically. Oh, grow up, she says.
The following day, you're in the car. The Wolverine is sitting beside you in the passenger seat banging on as usual about her shocking lack of freedom and your prehistoric attitude to everything.
Her friends' mothers let their daughters stay out all night if they want, she nags.
Her friends' mothers don't mind if their daughters have, like, seven girls over on a sleepover with no notice.
They let them go to 18th birthday parties where they know there'll be boys and alcohol. Those mothers grasp life's realities.
"But you and your husband ... "
You feel a headache coming on. Your knuckles whiten on the steering wheel and you fight a sudden desire to drive into the nearest wall or at least gobble a truck-load of carbs.
Instead you pull in and order your daughter into the back of the car.
You turn up 'Rolling In The Deep' by Adele to an ear-splitting volume. As you resume driving, you barely register the squeals of protests from the back seat. But you do notice that your desire to mainline bread is suddenly ... . gone.
Health & Living