If aliens came down from a galaxy far, far away and we tried to explain the time, effort, stress and money that we expend making ourselves take up less space in the universe, normally in order to impress the opposite, and same sex, do you not think we'd sound mental?

With an en masse rush to the gym in January that always dwindles off because gyms are warm, scary and smelly, a bit like the cave where they keep the Kardashians that didn't make the cut. It all kicks off again right about now, as most of us are guilty of being far too hard on ourselves at the prospect of being in swimwear. Newsflash: we have to live our lives EVERY DAY and we are in the aforementioned bathing garms for two weeks max. What should take priority?

Probably time for a disclaimer: I'm three weeks into a health kick, under-carbed and over-exerted. While I've fallen off every fad-diet wagon going, this time I decided to forge my own way, sort of like the animals in Homeward Bound but slightly hairier (still rocking them winter legs. Must try harder).

Trying out something as simple as eating better and exercising is only working for one reason. I've created a regime called the 'Prince and Pauper diet'. During the week I'm loving the laid-back sartorial vibe of my local Lidls and Aldis (who knew bright velour was still a thing?), and at the weekend I'm trying desperately not to be outed as a troglodyte at Whole Foods (note to self: quinoa = 'key-nwah').

While this has been agreeing with me - apart from the ethically sourced spicy fish sausages, mind you - I've now reached the burger-craving confines of asking myself why we do this to ourselves?

It seems I'm not the only one having this existential crisis. Men all over the land are embracing the 'Dad Bod'. Shunning mega-dilf David Beckham's lean physique and David Gandy's bumpy non-belly is in, so apparently this summer we should all expect to drool over pale podge with more definition than a terrestrial television circa 1995.

The original post described the Dad Bod as: 'I go to the gym occasionally, but I also drink heavily on the weekends and enjoy eating eight slices of pizza at a time.' Cool story, bro. Wouldn't it be utterly mind-blowing, liberating and tasty if women were afforded the same cheese-topped freedom?

It's not like we're actually going to fancy the Dad Bods, all articles that say we do have - surprise, surprise - been written by men. Any trend that counts Simon Cowell as one of its stalwarts is hardly going to have us sitting on the washing machine is it?

The womenfolk aren't happy. Many have taken to the streets (well, Twitter mainly but some went outside to do some IRL shouting too) over an advert for Protein World, which featured a sprightly gym bunny and was emblazoned with the question/warning: 'Are you bikini body ready?'

The furore led to a widely praised response from plus size model Ashley Graham, that has had the nation - the Tweeters mainly - buzzing about the pressure on women, and that women put on themselves, to look a certain way.

I've been the same size as Ashley (UK 16) and I looked no more like her than I did the slim blonde counterpart from the Protein World adverts. Both bodies unattainable for most, with flat stomachs and pert behinds, but why is one deemed so much worse?

Fat shaming, thin shaming, and is moaning about the two 'shame shaming?' Will it ever end, or will we end up in some 1984-meets-Oliver Twist scenario where we must gingerly ask our overlords: "please sir, can I have an opinion?"

We all need to stop stressing and start dressing. You are ready for the beach when you think you are, and it's your own personal journey into two-piece territory. The recent protests in London and the accompanying Twitter trend #everybodysready are just white noise in the fuzzy world of body acceptance. The struggle is so very real.

I certainly don't feel ready, and that's why I spend 45 minutes on a Monday and Wednesday trying not to look like an electrocuted weasel, while some size eight instructor shouts at me over a barrage of happy hardcore.

Conversely, if you're a size 22 and you feel, therefore look bitchin' in a bikini (hiya, Tess Holliday) then you get yourself down to the beach and get the piña coladas in. If you think, therefore you are, then shove your thinking cap on when you're jumping into your gym gear.