Strolling into quarantine, my delusions were plain; I was going to get prison fit, learn the guitar, and emerge a butterfly from this cocoon of desolation. Having resurrected Kayla’s BBG from the grave, I was well on track. With circuit one complete, I fancied myself the next Grace Beverly, picturing a booty thicc as a tree trunk, and thighs that could crush a boy’s heart like a watermelon.
Needless to say, the hopes of this continuing (and indeed, my dreams of dat ass) were as slim as flat Stanley’s profile.
Let me set my current scene. A mere 6 days later, here I sit. Laptop in lap, I am one with the sofa, a gin and tonic balanced precariously to my left, and a bar of chocolate luring me in on the right. My pyjamas have not been changed for days, and the only thing getting me through is my elaborate gourmet meal plan (link to my food insta below xx). So, my dear reader, I find myself at a bit of an impasse. Although one may suggest I just try and maintain my current physique, I would say to them – IMPOSSIBLE. For I am a woman of extremes, and there are only two foreseeable options in my mind. Firstly, I could struggle in vain for my dream body, deprive myself of culinary joy, and remove the sunshine from my days. TOMFOOLERY if ever I’ve heard.
So, I have decided (with the help of my Madam) that the second option really the only. We need to lean in to the corona 15. You want that pasta? Go get it hun. Daily run too much? Walk it, baby. I think what the world needs to know is that everyone is in the same boat, not only in our tireless boredom, but in the evident fact that when we emerge from our hobbit holes, we will all be chubby, pale, messes that not even Bob Ross could make beautiful. And our standards will simply have to change as a response. So, my sweet darlings, cheers to that, and for those leaning out, kindly fuck off !
By Camy Sandford