It’s no secret on this blog that I’m rather fond of food. This hasn’t always been the case – in the past I’ve had a very silly relationship on food, that bordered on a potential problem at times. Even once those days had passed, I was left with a guilt about food – I would feel bad every time I ate something ‘bad’. And, seeing as I had moved in with Dan, and nights out where quickly replaced with bowls of pasta on the sofa, the ‘bad’ definitely outweighed the good.
I had two choices. I could either accept that I loved food, try and ignore the guilt-ridden voice in my head and accept that I would probably become a little bit wobbly, or I could do something about it.
I chose the second version and joined a gym. As I’ve mentioned before, this went against every bone in my…
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