It's my life: Tric Kearney

If December was party central, January is definitely hangover hell. While I’m not sitting rocking in a chair crying, I do miss the Christmas happiness and I’m also missing something else, something I’d taken for granted.

It disappeared without my even noticing sometime between Christmas and New Year... my waistline.

I first missed it the other day as I walked into my bedroom and caught sight of a definitely rounder me, in the mirror.

For a moment I wondered was this my mirror or the cheaper one belonging to my daughter, which tells lies and reflects everyone as a short, dumpy, rotund individual. On closer inspection, it was indeed my mirror and that really was me in all my roundness.

“Oh dear,” I thought, turning right and left before rolling away to the kitchen. Sitting eating a mince pie, with a tiny bit of cream, I pondered upon what I’d seen.

Surely I’d not eaten that much over Christmas? I’d even gone for a long walk one day between Christmas and New Year. Enjoying the last crumb, I gave myself a shake. It must have been the way I was standing.

For a few days I thought no more about it, as I caught up, over tea and cake, with a few friends I’d not seen in a while.

“Did you buy anything in the sales?” one friend asked. I explained I was still too deeply traumatised from my days of pre-Christmas shopping to venture near the sales.

“Pity, there’s some great bargains.” She proceeded to tell me all that she’d bought and I began to feel a slight healing.

By the time we’d finished eating, a miracle had occurred and believe it or not my, post-Christmas shopping stress disorder, was cured. I said goodbye and raced to the shops.

I wanted black jeans. Yes, I had a few pairs already, but they were old. New year, new jeans — time to look after me.

I wandered about searching for jeans among the left over glam and glitter of Christmas. At last I found a pair with a pretty nice reduction and joy of joys they were my size. It was meant to be.

Normally, because of the effort involved in trying on jeans, I’d arm myself with a full selection, but not today. This pair had my name written all over them.

Removing my Dr Marten boots and jeans in such a confined space, was the closest I’d come to a workout in weeks. Conscious of the thin walls either side I did my best to keep my heaving and panting to a minimum.

I reached for my new jeans and began to pull them on. I never knew my feet were so big, as I struggled to pull them through the tiny gaps. Finally, both feet appeared. I paused for a moment of celebration and to catch my breath.

As I began to pull them up, it only took a nano second for me to accept this was never going to work. Perhaps I was mistaken and they were three sizes too small? No..right size, but there was another label I’d missed earlier — ‘Skinny fit’. My heart sank...not for these legs.

Huffing and puffing I had to begin peeling those skinny’s off. There was one hairy moment when my foot became crushed, fearing nerve damage I pulled with all my might until, like the cork on a bottle, my foot sprung out causing me to collapse against the very thin wall.

Exhausted, with a red face more suited to one coming out of the gym, I finally emerged panting, from fitting room hell.

“Would you like to take them?” asked the attendant.

“No thank you,” I smiled, “they make my feet look too big.”