Battling Bridezilla: Operation Glahmmm…

Appearances are everything…

With the marathon done and dusted, my mind turns to my forthcoming wedding.

Time seems to have flown by, and I’ve realised it’s time to assess my general upkeep.

Admittedly, up until this point, it’s not been great. I have a tendency to drag myself out of bed in the morning, jump in the shower, pull on some clothes and head out the door without a second thought.

However, in the slightly scary knowledge that some eyes will be on me come August, I’ve decided it’s time to take action. Last year was all good and well experimenting with (disastrous) make-up etc, but now there’s just four months to go. To coin a US phrase, this shit is getting real. (sorry mum)

The benefit of training for a marathon is that you can eat whatever you like and not put on too much weight. It’s brilliant. The downside is that when that training stops, you, er, can’t.

Monday morning starts well. I’m on a day off; the perfect time launch The Wedding Healthy Eating Plan.

“Skinny latte please.” It feels good saying it out loud, as I give myself a wee pat on the back. (figurative. FIGURATIVE).

Turns out skinny lattes are horrible. They taste like diluted mud with a consistency to match. It’s like having one of those teeny weeny overpriced sweet things they sell in coffee shops, when all you want is a huge slab of the cake next to it. But more of that later. Maybe I don’t have to have skinny lattes. I mean, how much more harm can a normal latte do? It’s only milk, right? Pah.

Lunch is at a trendy café where I have a number of things, including crackers and ryvita with lettuce and some salmon pate. It’s very nice, but there’s not enough of it. Stick in there, stick in…

Later, at the train station, I encounter a minor blip. In fact, what some might consider rather a large one. Deciding that I’ve done well enough to have a normal latte, I stop by a lovely wee French place.

I spot it. Straight away. Shining like a beacon, softly saying “eat me, eat me eat meeeeee”. It’s gateau. And not just any gateau. Black Forest gateau. My favourite dessert as a child. One of my favourite desserts as an adult. Although any dessert will do nowadays. I’m not fussy.

Before I know it I’ve ordered it. I admire it on my plate. So pretty. As I sit down, the waitress calls me back. “Would you like some pouring cream with that?”

Well, it would be rude not to…

A few days later and I’ve decided on a change of tack. Let’s focus on my face instead of my stomach. Time to get the old eyebrows done I think.

So it is I find myself sitting in a chair in a well-known London department store. My eyebrow hairs don’t like it. They don’t like it at all.

“My skin does go a bit red when I get the threading done,” I tell the beautician. “But I’m not allergic, so just do whatever.”

Mirror out. “You have hair loss in this bit, this bit and this bit.” “I will trim here, here and here, then dark powder on – yes?”

“Yes please. Thanks.” I have no idea what she means.

Five minutes later, the skin around my eyebrows looks like a plucked turkey. A shade best described as furious pink. I’ve also winced during most of the treatment. You know it’s never a good sign when the beautician has to hand you copious amount of tissues to quell your streaming eyes, while giving you a (literal. LITERAL) pat on the back and asking if you’re ok. I felt like I’d just come out of surgery.

But never mind, she’s putting some sort of powder on now, to fill in the gaping bits. I mean how bad can that look?

I don’t see it until I get home. Not so bridal. More Addams Family-esque.

I show my fiancé. He tries not to laugh as I narrow my (very) darkened brows.

Me: “Well it’s not permanent.”

“Are you sure?”

Suddenly I think I just lost the 5lbs I put on due to sexy gateau. Every cloud and all that…

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