Knowledge of myself

Sunday. Quiet and lazy afternoon. Just wondering shall I raid and ravage the fridge and then hate myself being such a wild sow, or I am a big and reasoning girl, who has ...well... kind of a will and discipline and wont give up in front of the mean mental challenge - to eat or not to eat...
And what other thoughts can be expected since I am watching repeatedly the cooking TV channel?!?!?! I am drooling over every single chocolate sculpture, over every little juicy piece of meat, over every deliciously looking vegetable or small and soft and crispy bread, over all those tasty things, which I AM ABLE to eat? Which I WANT to eat?!
My consciousness: "It is OVER! Stand up and fight! Take steps! Change this! Go to see yourself you... you... YOU!!! ... gutsy girl!"
I stood up obediently and went to the passage where... my consciousness again: "Mirror, mirror on the wall... tell I am not most bloated in the world!"
What the mirror told me is my business. It was a cruel scene though! Did you recently saw a figure with lack of waist line? Only the memory of once-been-there 61 Sm. waist girth, caught my gaze on the place where that thing should be... Shock, horror, devastation...
Back in the room. With stately presence like a rheum. Slid down on the unamiable coach (every object was if looking at me in an unfriendly manner). In defiance of my reproachful furniture I rivet on the same TV, same channel, same growing threat. As usual the program consists extremely good looking food and even better looking young women, showing fitness exercises between the cooking broadcasts. Which is disgustingly foully if somebody asks me! And - here you are! The latest trick. An overwhelming scantily clothed blond with stunning smile and breath-taking motions obviously was not thinking constantly about the chocolate and the peanuts in the shelf or at least it is most unlikely. This cutey caught my envious eye and indistinctly why the eye kept been caught by her for indefinite period of time. Eventually I found myself upright with strange tense in my neck and I understood that I was goggling with drawn tight sternocleidomastoideus. I felt like a bottom upward cast iron bucket in flying trim. The next thing I realized was my stretching upper extremities accompanied by a strange sound, something like a combination between brutally cracking nuts and creaking ruddy mechanism, just before go to rack and ruin. This very sound was getting out from my bones and joints. Then my poor wooden body has come under uncharacteristic bendings, twistings, turnings and similar -beyond description- strange looking, because performed by me, movements. It was pathetically sad personal dead failure.
Happily I was alone. More happily I cannot repeat nothing of this never again, even under dead threat and even if I wanted it in an eventual moment of severe mental disorder. But the best thing is that I already know what NOT to try under any circumstances.
I'll keep watching and admire belly-dance masters though. Motionless, I swear!