And Bingo is my name-o

Ah jesus, the moss has gathered over this unrolled rock.

Cliff Note update on my resolutions? Try: KILLING IT! Februry, BOOM: Clambering up Conic Hill with shaking calves and mud in my eye. March, BAM: DVLA app downloaded and highway code memorised. April… well I’m too poor to move right now but, damn, cut me some slack!

Well, what have I missed – Pepsi pissing off the entire world with the most bizarrely ignorant ad since that Chinese detergent one? United Airlines fueling everyone’s meme bank for the next decade? Fucking, Coachella?!  The ranting writes for itself.

Instead, I’m brushing the cobwebs off my blog for a part ramble, part challenge regarding -pause for effect- BINGO WINGS!

Arm charms. Chap Flaps. Jello Hellos. Whatever you and the Daily Mail want to call them.

A comment from a woman at the gym – you know, one of those “gym pals” where it’s waaaay too late to ask their name, yet you know the name of their three dogs, that they regret their most recent affair, their credit rating and blood type? – caused me to flip out.

Twice Divorced and I were at the water station after giving a solid 12% effort and she chirped: “Gosh, summer is coming up, you’ll probably want to tone those bingo wings if you want to go strapless, hmm?”

Hmmm?! Fucking HMMM?!

I spluttered slightly: “Sorry, what?” giving her a free pass to fake a coughing fit and leave.

“I PERSONALLY would hate to have that jiggle, be self conscious in the heat and have to wear a t-shirt.”

Bewildered, I nodded, chirped that I needed a pee and ran to the gym loos.

I felt as deflated as my arms and a veil of disappointment blanketed me while Pitbull filled the toilet cubicle. Fucking, Mr Worldwide…

Anxious and self-conscious, I stood for what seemed like an hour prodding at my arms and thinking about this time last year – at my highest weight and lowest point – where I was too self-conscious to even wear jeans and still felt judged when wearing a tshirt. She was right, I probably shouldn’t expose the world to my plumper upper-arms.

But then a dose of my sass came back a jolt. HOLD THE FUCK ON! I’ve worked my arse off – quite literally – this year and feel better than ever. My arms now have muscle along with the jiggle and, jesus, even if they were made entirely of jiggle, who on EARTH CARES?!

And so I set myself a challenge in that cubicle, during the 4th consecutive Pitbull hit, that this year I won’t hide my arms for fear of ridicule. I’m going to wear that strappy top without a sheer shirt over it. And I’m going to wave hello to my friends without worrying that I’m slapping a nearby person with my arm flab.

I’m going to really step outside my comfort zone, with a call to arms, so to speak!

I’m #embracingbingo this summer – are you with me?!

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2 thoughts on “And Bingo is my name-o

  1. Lynsey says:

    I dont think they are bingo wings, you know! Maybe she has cataracts and has trouble seeing. Or maybe its a serious case of bitchyitis and she feels the need to put a dampener on your day. Either way, you look fabulous and your work has paid off- never mind strappy, I’d be prancing around in a Brazillian bikini down buchanan street if I looked that good!


    • shestrickyvicky says:

      Ohhh believe me, they’re basically a bucket of buffalo wings, haha. But thanks so much for this comment 🙂 I’m a while off exposing Buchanan Street to my bikini area (that’s a whole other blog post!) but certainly will weave my arm flab with a bit more confidence now 🙂 x


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