The Dad Bod. What is it? Well when you wake up and realise that you can’t see your feet anymore and that your breasts are bigger than hers, it’s most likely that you have one.
For the past number of months I’d been blaming numerous dry cleaners for ‘shrinking’ my suits and I’d been setting the washing machine to low heat because well why else would my shirts not be fitting me anymore? My wife too had been indicating that I’d be able to breastfeed Thing 3 soon enough and when the sports bra she leant me broke I started to get the hint.
The Dad Bod, when you wake up and realise that you can’t see your feet anymore and that your breasts are bigger than hers, it’s most likely that you have one.
Granted, before Things 1, 2 & 3 arrived, I was no male model (I’m more female model now) but to a certain extent I did manage to stave off the visual signs of ageing and gravity. Now however I have what you might call a Dad Bod.
It’s basically my old body but it doesn’t fit into my clothes anymore and it’s always best kept covered up…
Some people will argue that has always been the case, but we’ll ignore that and swiftly move on.
My wife too had been indicating that I’d be able to breastfeed Thing 3 soon enough and when the sports bra she leant me broke I started to get the hint.
So the Dad Bod, this was a problem because I had been invited to my cousin’s wedding (Hi Sophie & Ed), which was one week away and the only black suit I had had obviously ‘shrunk’.
Without the time and/or patience to hit the gym I decided then and there that I’d embark on my first diet of the non Cadbury variety (farewell for now, my milky chocolatey dunky friend). It was the weekend – how hard could it be?
It’s basically my old body but it doesn’t fit into my clothes anymore and it’s always best kept covered up
I got up the next day, got the kids fed and joined them by pouring myself a bowl of All-Bran (yes it still exists). By the fourth spoonful every last ounce of moisture had been sponged from my mouth.
I felt like I was doing the 60 second Cream Cracker challenge. I was half tempted to give Bear Grylls a call but that would have been stupid as I don’t have his number.
Poor Thing 1 looked at me with a somewhat worried expression. He passed me some of his orange juice, but I refused. In for a penny, in for a pound and all that.
For lunch I had a salad. For dinner I had a salad. For my nightly tea dunk I had carrot sticks. By 8am the next morning, wifey, and all the kids had locked themselves in the kitchen while I banged on the door with a rice cake begging for a fry. I threatened to eat ‘Bunny and Neem’ but not even the shrieks of horror from Thing 1 & 2 were enough to open the door.
I felt like I was doing the 60 second Cream Cracker challenge.
But I persisted. Mainly because as I passed our hall mirror I looked at my reflection and what stared back at me was something that resembled ‘Sloth’ from The Goonies. ‘Youuu guuuys’, I roared and made my way back to All-Bran hell.
Somehow I made it through the next few hours and by 5pm this grumpy fatty was ready to sell the kids for kebabs.
I stood on the scales, watched as the digital reader flickered for a few seconds (a dodgy battery obviously) and waited with bated breath. 3lbs lost, yahoo, 3-whole-lbs in 36 hours. Unbelievable.
Then as my fat brain kicked in I questioned it.
Guess it was unbelievable – that bloody battery. The reader was so dim that I didn’t see the decimal point. It was actually .3lbs lost, yahoo, .3lbs. Result. No better way to celebrate than by tucking into a Buttered Chicken and reuniting with some of my Cadbury friends…..Belt off and lounge pants to the ready.
The wedding was great.
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