Wait, pralines have "slutty wares"?

Late last year I had a lot on my mind. So much on my mind, in fact, that for a couple of weeks my insides were so knotted up with anxiety that I abandoned my usual motto of ‘gluttony for all, especially me’ and ate bugger all. A toasted cheese and satay tofu sandwich sidled up to me and I gave it a polite thanks but no thanks. Chocolate coated pralines threw their slutty wares in my face and I turned away. Hot chips sat by the phone, weeping into their salty deliciousness thinking “why won’t she call?” As a result I lost a bit of weight and then had to put up with everyone telling me I’d lost a bit of weight (Oh who am I kidding with this “put up” malarky – I loved it, just like you do).

Anyway, a couple of months (and any lost weight regained) later my brain has exploded in confusion with the knowledge that apparently worrying makes people fat. Frick. I’m very concerned.

Now, before I go on you might want to consider two pieces of information: firstly that this ‘news’ comes from some random university I’ve not heard of in Quebec (apologies to Universite Laval in Quebec but you’re not exactly Harvard, eh?) and secondly that I only heard this information secondhand via David Mitchell’s reliably-hilarious column for The Observer. Meaning that from Quebec’s mouth to my ears has been a long journey via several keyboards (probably), a dodgy French website (allegedly) and a frisky game of Chinese whispers (now I’m just guessing). Plus I haven’t had lunch yet so my blood sugar is dangerously low.

Disclaimer over, even so, if there’s a single grain of truth to this it is incredibly disturbing. Because surely we all know that the one good thing about times of stress or mental breakdown is that we look damn good doing it. Sure your boyfriend’s left you, you’ve lost your job and you’re throwing up every time the phone rings but my god are those ribs I see?

I direct you back briefly to Mitchell’s snappy analysis which contains this gem of truth:

“Grateful as I am to the scientists and researchers who have provided us with this annoying information, I’m unclear as to what they want us to do with it.”

Exactly. The problem here is obvious: this news, if true, is worrying. Worrying makes you fat. Getting fat makes you worry. You worry about worrying. You get fatter. You worry even more about your thighs rubbing together when you walk. Soon enough kind-hearted beachgoers are trying to roll you back into the ocean. There’s no escape: you’re trapped in this horrible fatty cycle forever. Unless, of course, you can chill the fuck out, put your feet up and Stop Worrying. Which is easier said than done when you’re a 300 pound fretter drifting out to sea.