Dear karmic force of the universe/deity/wrathful old testament God according to my eldest son/empty void/whatever,
I am writing to ask if you could see your way to giving me my metabolism back. My metabolism and I started to drift apart sometime in about, oooh, 1992 when all the popular girls in our class decided to take up Weightwatchers, and being impossibly competitive, I thought I should go one better and get a proper bad ass eating disorder. I was not very good at this, but eventually my persistence began to pay off.
As you may recall, prior to 1992, a normal day would consist of a balanced breakfast of 4 crumpets, followed by a Twix on the 5 minute walk to school. Around 10:45 I would break, ravenously, for roast chicken flavour crisps and a packet of peculiar novelty chocolate sweets called Vice Versas, or possibly several slices of toast with butter and Nutella. Lunch from 1987 - 1992 was invariably Mother's Pride white sliced bread with iceberg lettuce, followed by a trip to the sweet shop down the road for a quarter pound of something diabetes-inducing. After further Vice Versas and crisps, I would eat a large dinner (unless it was cauliflower curry), then be starving again at 9 and have to go down the Spar for more chocolate (or out for chips on cauliflower curry night). During all this time I had a 25" waist and weighed 8 and a half stone (54 kilos, metric deities/voids). I did not think twice about what went in my mouth, being far too preoccupied with worshipping Morissey, snarling, moping and having hopeless doomed crushes.
After 15 years of varying brands of dietary lunacy - the year of M&S diet ready meals, the year of the rice cooker, the year of carb phobia, the five years of twenty types of fruit and veg a day, the year of replacing food with coffee and chocolate squares, and of course the many years of delightful eye-vein-popping bulimia - my metabolism and I have completely lost touch with one another. There were brief attempts at reconciliation during my pregnancies when we both began to think we could make this thing work, but I always managed to screw things up eventually, with my deluded desire to wear jeans and stuff. I think you could describe us as estranged. My metabolism hung in there for as long as it could, but eventually it had to admit defeat. I suppose it is now hiding out at its parents' reading self-help books about metabolisms that love too much (or metabolise too much?) and call screening.
As a result, I now find that after two brief but memorable weeks' holiday in the 1970s with the world's largest coffee and walnut cake that noone else liked, and a staple 2 Mr Whippee ice creams per day habit, I have exploded outwards like a giant puffer fish and cannot wear 95% of my wardrobe. Today's outfit of unintentionally grey American Apparel t shirt size L and unfortunate but roomy cropped trousers is making baby Jesus cry. There is little I can do about this; as we both know, dieting turns me into a demented ball of rage, notorious for kicking animals, shouting at children and daydreaming compulsively of dancing vats of custard. Within days I would have my head down the toilet and all the veins around my eyes would have exploded in their habitual attractive fashion. But what's a girl to do? Must I really resign myself to only wearing clothes bought whilst pregnant?
I am truly sorry for fucking about with my metabolism over the last 15 years. I would particularly like to apologise to it for the years 1996 and 2005, but also for the constant low level cruelty inflicted on it in other years. If it comes back, I promise I will treat if right this time. We will try and walk to work. I will not eat mini Snickers for lunch. There will be the correct number of meals per day. I am not asking to get back into ALL my clothes, and especially not those purchased in 2005, but at least a couple of pairs of decent trousers would be great. And I know it's a bit churlish to complain about my newly enormous pornographic chest, but I have blouses and shit I would actually like to wear without looking like Barbara Windsor, if that could be arranged.
So, um, please? Tell it I'm sorry. I just want us to go back to the way things used to be. I love you metabolism, please come home!
(ps. if you can't arrange this, maybe I could have my eyelashes back instead? Thanks.)