Monthly Archives: September 2015

First Impressions

Freeform thoughts, In the here & now, ,

not listeningI had an interesting conversation with the asshole inside my head yesterday morning as I was getting dressed, and I chewed on it all the way to work. Given that I’m a single girl, early morning conversation in my house is usually limited to my chit chat with the dog who listens really hard with his head cocked to one side just waiting for me to mention either ‘breakfast’ or ‘walkies’, both of which are guaranteed to prompt a little brown and white whirlwind because that’s his cue to race downstairs and crack on with his day. So it’s generally a time of low conflict given that both me and the furry one are blessed with a sunny disposition and enjoy our morning routine.

The asshole had different ideas today. I told you didn’t I, that he’d try and erode my willpower though the back door by affecting my mood. So this morning, he started by passing comment on my hair, which admittedly needs cutting – I’m going on Saturday as it happens but apparently when it’s just that bit too long, it makes my face look fat. Fatter.

He didn’t approve of my outfit either which prompted me to change twice before I even left the bedroom. I never do that, so clearly he thought he was on a roll, and as a parting shot he reminded me I was interviewing today, and what would the candidate think when they were met by some fat old woman in reception.

It didn’t make me run for the naughty cupboard and drown my sorrows with chocolate in case you’re wondering, but the reflex to eat when I need to draw some comfort is alive and well, evidenced by the fact that I’d eaten my lunch by 10am. But that was a whoops with a small ‘w’ because despite his best efforts, I didn’t crumble and the game ended with Me: 1 – Asshole: 0.

But anyway, as I was driving into the office, I did reflect on what is the first thing people notice about me. When I’m skinny, people might notice my hair, which Mother Nature has rushed through the aging process with warp speed and it’s very silvery blonde now. It’s actually quite a pretty colour. If I was to have a bad hair day they’d definitely notice that too…untamed (which it never is for work) it’s ridiculously curly with a tendency to frizz and puff out like a really bad silver ‘fro.

When I’m skinny they’d probably notice my clothes…I’m a bit of a fox if truth be known when I can fit into non-fat-lady duds and I have an eye for what looks good. It’s a different story when you’re the size of two people in one body – for all these catalogues and websites purporting to design clothes to flatter ladies with a fuller figure, the reality is whatever you put on looks blah, or at least that’s how it feels.

When I’m skinny people might even notice my big smile, or my green eyes. But right now, I think the asshole’s probably right – before they have chance to take in any of that, they’d probably just notice that I’m really fat. And on days when your confidence is having a bit of a wobble, that really sucks.

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A broken leg.

Reflections on past times,

200x200_chair

All that talk of armchairs the other day reminded me of an incident with a chair that happened years ago, when my son was little – he’s in his late twenties now but I think he was about 7 years old at the time. We were enjoying some hospitality courtesy of the Golden Arches, and as we made our way to a free table and sat down with our lunch, disaster struck.

Now you know how sometimes when you watch an accident unfold it feels like it’s happening in slow motion..? That’s exactly how it was. I sat down, and then he sat down, but he carried on getting lower and lower until he landed on the floor with a thump. To give him his due, he never dropped so much as a chip – he held onto his lunch like his life depended on it.

I assumed that perhaps he’d perched on the edge of the chair and that it had simply tipped over, but once I’d picked him up and dusted him off, on closer inspection it transpired that the front leg had parted company with the rest of the chair.

He was fine, other than being mortified that lots of people had seen him topple over and thankfully the only injury was a bruise to his pride but I was cross – he could easily have hurt himself. So, chair in one hand and chair leg in the other I set off through the restaurant and approached the counter. Now, picture if you will, the scene; very fat lady carrying a broken chair…what conclusion would you draw?

Yeah, me too actually. Well you would, wouldn’t you…but at the time it didn’t even occur to me until I was standing in front of the duty manager holding the offending chair leg aloft that he’d automatically think I’d broken it. As realisation dawned that he was about to blame me for wrecking his furniture because I was too fat to sit safely I felt like wrapping the chair leg around his chops. I resisted the temptation to do so, and we sorted it out but it’s true you know – fat people are usually the fall guy.

Only yesterday, a colleague was telling me about how he’d sat on a bar stool at the weekend and it had fallen to bits underneath him, depositing him on the floor. The bar owner had been full of apologies, they’d had a giggle about it and he got a free drink by way of apology. I can guarantee that if I’d been the one to sit on that stool only for it to collapse in a heap, first of all I would’ve died a thousand deaths, the asshole in my head would have gone in for the kill by immediately blaming me for being so fat (and screaming at me that everyone else in the bar thought so too), and I would have been the one apologising profusely for breaking the stool and offering to buy another one immediately.

Makes you think, doesn’t it…we all judge, based on what we see. But when you’re fat, you judge yourself more harshly than anyone else does, without question.

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Fitness in the home

Reflections on past times, ,

treadmill

So my friend asked me whether, given I was reluctant to go to the gym, I had ever considered setting up a home gym. This isn’t an unreasonable question, setting aside the fact that I live in a house the size of a shoebox. The answer is yes, I’ve considered it. In fact I’ve probably had more equipment in and out of my house over the years than Bannatyne’s if I’m being honest. Even growing up I remember owning a rope and pulley contraption which fitted over my bedroom door and provided resistance training of some kind…I can tell you it was red and white but I don’t remember much about using it. Watch closely, and you’ll see a theme developing.

My first proper piece of gym equipment was a treadmill which I’d seen advertised in a ‘New Year Sale’ catalogue – I was the idiot in line at 6am on New Years’ Day outside the store eager to grab a bargain. Clearly the alarm bells should have been ringing at that point when nobody else felt the need to turn up at stupid o’clock and join me. Far from racing through the store and pitting my wits against squillions of other bargain hunters all keen to get their hands on said treadmill, when the doors opened at 10am I was still in a line of one. Still, purchase made and car loaded off I went to start the New Year by jogging 10 miles a day in the hope that I’d be skinny by Easter.

Except when I got it home, I couldn’t figure out how to turn it on. As it transpired, I didn’t need to turn it on – it wasn’t that kind of treadmill. (I mean FFS, hands up who even knew there was more than one kind?) It was a big heavy thing which operated by foot power only and in light of this new information it certainly hadn’t been a bargain. No wonder nobody else wanted it, it was useless. Well, I’m exaggerating, it wasn’t totally useless – it made a really good clothes stand when it was folded up behind my bedroom door. But as a treadmill, epic fail.

My next big purchase was a power plate – that sounded right up my street, and clearly this was going to be the answer to all my prayers. You do what? Stand on it and bend your knees a bit and it shakes the fat around so you burn it off really quickly? Get in, I’m all over that. Trouble was, it had a platform the size of a postage stamp and no matter what angle I tried, I couldn’t plant my feet and assume the position without falling off the damn thing especially when it started wobbling. I used it a couple of times but given that it sounded like a Boeing 747 was about to take off in my bedroom, the dog barked at it relentlessly (and why wouldn’t he, I kept landing on him) and it made me feel a bit sick, this too was a short-lived. To put the cherry on top, I’d bought it second hand and it had been stood in someone’s garage for a while so far from tightening up my gluteus maximus the only lasting legacy was that it left big dirty feet marks on my cream bedroom carpet.

Looking on the bright side, I had to walk round all this gear to get to the bed, so I did walk further as a direct result. Baby steps people, baby steps 🙂

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The asshole inside my head.

In the here & now, , , ,

thoughtSo we’re getting to know each other a little bit now, right? I think it’s probably about time I introduced you to the asshole who lives inside my head. Think of it like I’m inviting you home to meet the folks. Now, I don’t think this is unique to me – I suspect not, I think perhaps everyone has a member of his extended family who muscles in on their thought process from time to time – but my guy has a black belt in mind games and he’s pretty much carved out a permanent home in a corner of my head.  He doesn’t really have a name, so I just call him Asshole.

Now you might think that’s a bit rude, but it’s a name that suits him. The first dictionary I looked at defines the word ‘asshole’ as ‘a stupid, mean or contemptible person’ and I’ve gotta be honest, it suits him perfectly. Occasionally he’s thrown me the odd crumb of a compliment but knowing him as I do it’s nothing more than reverse psychology…he’s clever like that. Strangely, since I named him, it’s been easier to separate his voice from my own, and I’m here to tell you that’s been a big help. Strangely enough he’s been very quiet over the last couple of weeks – I suspect he’s just observing these blog shenanigans from the sidelines and lulling me into a false sense of security until he’s decided on a strategy.

His is the voice I hear when one of my insecurities bubbles near to the surface. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a fairly confident person and I’m very comfortable around people, but when he spots a loose thread he’s in there like a ninja, grabbing every opportunity to blow a big hole in my self esteem. His words are like barbed wire. ‘You look really fat in that’. ‘Yeh your hair looks ok but OMG who’s gonna look at your hair with so many chins clamouring for attention’. ‘I don’t know why you’re even bothering to look at the new winter collection, you’re going to look like a sack of spanners in whatever you put on anyway’…you get the gist. ‘Did you see the way that skinny woman looked at you when she walked past? You’ve probably put her off hob nobs for life’.

And he’s armed with a thousand ways to poke holes in my willpower. His was the handiwork you saw first hand when I poked fun at the suggestion that booking a block of gym classes would keep me motivated. He’s the absolute daddy when it comes to talking me into something I shouldn’t do, and talking me out of doing something I should. He tries his best to derail me whenever I’m motoring down the right track, and his impressive success rate over the years has turned him into a right smug little bastard.

He HATES it when I find the sweet spot. That place where I am right now makes it much harder for him to get at my willpower but he still walks beside me wherever I go, looking for his window of opportunity…I might be on top of things just now but I feel him, waiting. He’ll focus his energy on  my mood as a back door entry to my willpower because that’s worked well for him in the past.

I’m happy to report that for now, that door is locked and bolted.

 

 

 

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The heifer in the helicopter

Freeform thoughts, In the here & now

Chinook

For all my harping on about not getting weighed beyond maybe once a month or so, I do have a very important short term goal. I think I mentioned that some friends and I have a trip coming up in a few weeks – as part of that we’re doing a helicopter flight which is going to be amazing. However.

When we booked it a few months ago I was wildly optimistic about how much weight I would have lost by the time we went…for reasons we’ve discussed earlier in the week, that didn’t happen. I think I’m probably heavier now than was when I made my best guesstimate about how much I’d weigh at the point of lift-off. Whoops. Worst thing is, you have to put your weight on the booking form and mine wasn’t just ‘shave a bit off’…it was more ‘wander into the realm of fantasy and knock a shit load off because it’s ages away and I’m bound to be skinny by then’. Double whoops. In fact, FUCK. I don’t think they have any Chinooks.

I so badly didn’t want to be the heifer in the helicopter but according to the evil scales, last Sunday I was into double seat territory. All six of us want to go in the same ‘copter and I’ll feel so bad if that can’t happen because I scored an epic fail and didn’t take the weight off. So…my mission, which (better late than never) I have chosen to accept, is to dodge a two-seat charge and see something incredible with five of my closest friends. I have 6 weeks and 5 days to pull it out of the bag. They weigh you, right there in the office when you’re checking in, so every day I’m going to visualise two scenarios.

The first one is me, stepping on the scales as they’re preparing the helicopter,  and triggering a big red flashing light, with an alarm sounding and bells ringing, and all my friends shaking their heads sadly as I’m despatched to a helicopter all of my own in the hope that it will make it off the ground. In the second scenario I’m in the same place, standing on the same scales (and I might even get one of ‘those’ looks from the clerk, you know the ones that skinny people reserve for fatties) but she quietly writes down my number and says ‘NEXT’.

I reckon that visualising will help. The first scenario would make me want to curl up and die right there on the spot. The second would be awkward enough but I’d be proud, and relieved and I’d feel like I’m the same as everyone else in my group. Even if the seatbelt almost cuts me in half, even if I have to sit in the middle at the back so as not to make the helicopter tip up, even with all that I’d be treated like everyone else, and that on its own is enough to make me feel as light as a feather.

I am going to do it.

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