Monday, 30 June 2014

This post is not going to be pretty..

The above piece of evidence is a picture of my bed at approximately 6pm on Saturday the 28th of June 2014. Let me set the scene for you...

Mid-week, my boyfriend came home with the news that we had been invited out for dinner with a few of his work friends. After which, we would nip down to the local pub for a few beverages with his work team as a sort of celebration for doing something kinda big. That's as much detail as I managed to recall as I stopped caring after the words, 'free bar' were mentioned. People seemed excited about it so it must have been a pretty big deal. 

Like the organised female that I am, I had already planned my outfit, which consisted of a jeans and blazer combo with my fabulous, new, chunky sandals... Sorted, only I planned my outfit on a wet and rainy day and come the actual day of outfit wearing, the sun was burning a hole in my perfectly planned ensemble. I needed an outfit change. Cue me frantically throwing on every item of clothing that I owned in a desperate attempt to determine what I should possibly wear! It's safe to say that it didn't go very well.

I spent a whole one hour and forty five minutes tumbling down the rabbit hole of irrational psychosis. I'd started this thing a sane and functional human being, but I had been reduced to a shell of a person by denim and chiffon. I'm pretty sure that my boyfriend was frightened. I don't blame him. Over the course of said outfit change, I had kicked my beloved shoes across my bedroom floor and declared that I was in fact, never going to eat ever again, before puffing my belly out to represent the pregnant version of myself and then falling in a heap of tears. Understandably, Scott was wary on how to approach the situation and after a few tentative words, resorted to bringing me alcohol in the hope that a few gulps of the good stuff would restore my sanity and his belief that I was actually the girl he will someday call his wife. 

Even writing this makes my entire body cringe. Why is it that getting dressed... something I learnt to do when I was four years old, reduces me to a shadow of my actual self? It's really very ridiculous and it embarrasses me to admit that this isn't even a one off. It happens scarily too often. I can barely even bring myself to write that in the end I wore the same outfit that I had originally planned; minus the jacket. 

Why did I have to go around the houses, develop a weight problem, refuse to leave my apartment and destroy my lovely, tidy bedroom in this relatively simple process? If anyone has a number I can call, it would be much appreciated. 


  1. This is a rather regular problem in my life, my bedroom and my relationship... well said and well described. What do we, as women do to ourselves... the stress, the pressure!!! The problem is, if we have no occasions to dress up for, that isn't right either xxx
    x Maria x

    1. I live for the moments I can dress up.. It's just a long process getting there! Haha.. Thanks for commenting Maria xx

    2. Oh the stresses of getting dressed. My worse moments are when I am having a fat day, then I have no hope of actually getting ready without chaos.

    3. It happens to us all! Thanks for commenting xx


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