Monthly Archives: December 2017

Too Much Information..?

In the here & now, ,

I can’t begin to tell you how many poo stories I’ve listened to over the last day or so, I mean seriously, there have been lots. It seems I’m not the only one amongst our band of merry men who’s found themselves locked in dispute with their own pipes. And the thing is, I always forget how many people that I actually know in my real life who read the blog.

It’s one thing when you realise your lack of filter has left people around the world wondering whether or not you’ve managed to open your purse, but it’s something else entirely when you pass someone in the corridor at work and they pull a face and say anything yet..? 

One of my friends in the office pressed a maximum strength senocot pill into my hands and suggested it might help. I carried it home with the same care I might have reserved for a stick of dynamite, having (wisely I thought) decided against road-testing it before I was safely home and within sprinting distance of the bathroom. I mean it hadn’t just been a day or two, and I was worried that wouldn’t end well at all.

I’m very pleased to announce that nature took its course before said pill was swallowed, much to my blessed relief. It felt like a Lion King moment, I mean I appreciate I’m not exactly holding anything aloft or introducing the fruit of my loins to the nation but metaphorically speaking I’m sure you’ll all sleep easier in your beds tonight knowing my agony is over. And over, and over, and over as it happens.

It’s only the second time in my life that I’ve suffered this badly. The first time was worse actually. I was in the Maldives with my best friend, and without going into sordid detail my body was on lockdown then in the same way that it has been this week. I can only liken that experience to a breach birth, and due to the dodgy plumbing on the tiny island and my utter mortification at not being able to make the offending article go away after upwards of a hundred flushes, I ended up wrapping it in a carrier bag and cycling up to the big industrial waste bins behind the kitchens with a suspicious baguette-shaped parcel in the basket on the front of my hired bicycle.

Fuck, I’ve done it again haven’t I? No filter. Still, you can’t beat a good poo story between friends, right?

So anyway, things are looking up. I had another false start yesterday on account of some Thornton’s chocolates and a pub lunch however I’m now full subscribed to Weight Watchers again, and I’ve done my food shop. I sat and read every scrap of information about the new flex programme last night as I was oven-roasting some vegetables to take to work for lunch today, along with a chicken breast. My porridge oats are primed for breakfast, and a portion – not a punnet – of grapes is all bagged up for my mid-morning snack.

I’ve got this. My 2L water bottle is full and completes the hat-trick. I feel quite excited, although I recognise that I’ve been here before. That doesn’t really matter though, does it? All that matters is that I’m here now 🙂

 

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Woman Vs Nature: The Stand-Off

In the here & now, ,

So, my apologies to those of you who diligently follow the Shitbird chronicles on a Sunday, all our updates were late yesterday and it was my fault. Kayleigh and Nic both weighed in first thing, and sent me their pictures, but I buggered the system up by insisting that I couldn’t possibly get weighed until I’d had a poo.

Except it didn’t happen. It’s been a few days to be honest, and I feel like crap if you’ll pardon the pun. Really sluggish and bloated, you know? It’s my own fault, my menu choices continue with one foot in sensible and the other in la-la-la not listening…and I know I’m not drinking enough water.

If you’re squeamish about poo stories you might want to give this post a wide berth. I did try my very best, first thing yesterday. I sat and contemplated life for a good half an hour but nice as it was to shut myself in the bathroom with just Charlie-dog for company (he refuses to wait outside and likes to jump in the bath and drink from the tap whilst I’m otherwise engaged) it was a fruitless exercise.

I tried drinking three coffees in quick succession – that normally helps. I was wired, but still nothing. I ate a decent breakfast, on the basis that if everything’s already backed up, more food coming in might result in a bit of exit action, right? Nope.

So then I figured I’d practise a bit of reverse psychology with my own nether regions. Instead of trying everything in my repertoire to persuade my body to give up…well, you know, I made an heroic attempt to ignore the fact that it needed to. Pottered around with everything clenched and refused to try. Well that backfired a bit because even the urge went away and the net result was no news to report.

So I had to hop aboard the Shitbird Scale last night with what feels like a belly full of concrete. Under the circumstances, I was relieved at only a pound and a half on. I don’t think it’s really on, as such…for whatever reason, I think my body’s holding onto everything  I’ve eaten since probably last Wednesday or Thursday. But be fair, that’s more than a bit.

I had a great weekend with my friends, despite having to cut our girly time short by a day on account of the snow which Mother Nature kindly dumped on the doorstep of where we were staying. Foxy Lodge is in the middle of nowhere, and watching the news today it was definitely the right decision to head home, we would’ve been stranded there until at least midweek otherwise.

Whilst we were away I ate good stuff and naughty stuff. We had cocktails at breakfast time on Friday, followed by lots of prosecco in the hot tub surrounded by snow but there was really only one day of utter carnage on account of us coming home earlier than planned. It could’ve been worse. And I had an absolute ball, relaxing and chilling out with my besties and laughing my ass off. It’s done me the world of good and you know what, at the end of the day that’s what matters.

I’ve decided to go back to Weight Watchers…they’ve brought a new plan out and everyone’s raving about it. I often find trying something new helps me tune out the asshole voice when he’s spending way too much time in the driving seat. In the past, switching it up has really helped me to re-focus. Lord only knows I need to. I didn’t get my shit together yesterday, so I’m starting it today.

Two weeks before Christmas. Yeah, I know…that’s what I thought too. But I refuse to hand over the next two weeks to food fuckery without a fight, you know? I could take seven pounds off before the holidays with a strong wind behind me and if it’s not coming off, it’s likely to be going on, and I’m not sitting back and letting that happen. I can’t.

For those of you who follow Weight Watchers I’d be interested to know what you think of the new freestyle programme…? 🙂

 

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A Head Like Elvis

In the here & now, , ,

I imagine more than a few of you will be familiar with the self destruct button, right? You know that thing you press which immediately snatches defeat from the jaws of victory? Mine’s seen a bit of welly over the years, in fact the letters have worn off and it feels as smooth as a pebble washed a million times by the sea. It’s under my thumb right now, and it’s like I’ve got some weird kind of fat-girl twitch making me press it, over and over.

Why do I do it? Yesterday was bleurgh. I dodged a few things I shouldn’t have, ate salad for lunch but wobbled a bit in the afternoon (fucking refresher lollies ambushed me again at work, although I did count them) and then I went and ate a monster portion of chilli for tea which pushed me right over my calories. It’s all officially gone tits up, in fact my head is like Elvis…it’s left the building.

What I’m eating isn’t the only fuckery going on here. I’m sleep-dodging too. I sat up last night until eleven thirty or so before heading up to bed knowing I needed to write this post. No careful drafting it out and marinading it for a while before refining and making it just right…no no no. Not this girl, in this mood.

What I actually did was sit in the chair and binge watch ninety day fiancé all evening, even though it’s a pile of shite and I couldn’t give a damn about the stupid people in it and their badly scripted trials and tribulations. Maybe it’s because I imported my own car-crash fiancé years ago from over the pond and I’m fascinated watching other people’s disasters unfold in slow motion just like mine did.

That particular life disaster is buried in the archives somewhere for those of you fancy a good laugh, but whatever…I sat and watched five episodes back to back till I could hardly stay awake from sheer fucking boredom, when I should have been busy tipping the contents of my head onto the page and rearranging it all in the medium of words to help move me on a notch.

In the end it wasn’t far shy of 1am by the time I’d tipped up my word-count, and my alarm goes off at six. Five hours’ sleep plus change, to prepare me for a one hundred mile round trip commute and a job that’s wringing me out on a daily basis at the moment. Way to go to nourish my mind and body, right? I’m such a dickhead sometimes.

Mimi was so astute on Monday when she called me out on lining up an excuse ready to wheel out at the weekend as I try and justify three days of over-indulgence with my friends. She was absolutely bang on. I was doing that. I still am. I’m looking at the pictures and GIFs and Memes that we’re all sharing on WhatsApp as we get giddy about seeing each other and making cocktails and eating chocolate in the hot tub, and staying in pyjamas to watch movies.

I want to immerse myself in the full experience including drinking buckets of prosecco and eating my own bodyweight in inappropriate snacks. Same as everyone else. The trouble is, for them it’s a one-off, but me, well…I don’t know when to quit.

So, yeah. I can feel this fucking button under my thumb, but I’m wandering around in fat-girl fog and I’m not sure I can resist the urge to push it. Again.

I’m heading out Thursday afternoon and there’s no internet signal at Foxy Lodge so I won’t be able to post on Friday, although I’ll be back in time for the Shitbird Chronicles on Sunday.

I can’t wait for that one, I mean seriously just bloody shoot me now…

 

 

 

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Wading Through Treacle

In the here & now, , ,

I appear to have sparked a mini panic by failing to pop up in your news feed with my usual Friday words. Sorry about that, and I love the fact that you noticed, but I’m fine, I promise. It was just one of those weeks where work was off-the-scale demanding of both my time and my head-space, and there were a couple of nights out that I wouldn’t normally have in my diary. There just wasn’t time to fit everything in.

By the end of the week I was banjaxed, and a last-minute cobbling together of anything worth reading didn’t feel do-able. I hardly ever miss a post, but I think by Thursday I’d had every last drop of creative juice wrung out of me, and then some.

I had a really mixed week from an eating perspective. Sunday to Tuesday went really well. I was completely sure-footed, you know? Wednesday was a little bit wobbly, although I can’t pinpoint what it was that threw me off my game. Thursday and Friday went completely to shit. Saturday I played at being good until I went shopping, and then I had to sit on the naughty step until bedtime. By some fucking miracle, the Shitbird Scale awarded me a one pound loss yesterday morning. I have no idea how, I mean genuinely no idea.

I don’t know about you, but I’m finding it so hard to stay focused with Christmas just around the corner. Every single step feels like I’m wading through treacle. I don’t have a choice but to focus…if I take my eye off the ball I know full well that I’ll hit the holidays fifteen pounds heavier than I am now, and by New Year I’ll look like a fucking Buddha. So I have to keep my head in the game, but it seems like everywhere I turn there’s food just taunting me.

Mince pies and Baileys almost got me yesterday in the supermarket. I saw them out of the corner of my eye as they lit up a gondola end with their special offer tags. I ran around the aisles refusing to make eye contact with anything tasty, in fact I probably looked like I was on some kind of special ops mission. Milk, chicken, veggies and OUT…BAM BAM BAM. Do not engage with any special offers and if it’s in a shiny Christmas wrapper it’s bad…step away.

Yesterday was a good day. My unexpected one pound loss provided the impetus that I needed to keep my feet in the sweet spot. I swam, and I ate within calories and I did it willingly because my head played nicely. I’m hoping for more of the same today, but there’s a danger-zone between twelve and two, with a Christmas lunch to be navigated.

Tuesday and Wednesday should be uneventful and I’m determined they’ll go without a hitch but Thursday through Saturday will be the real test of willpower because it’s our bi-annual girly weekend away in Foxy Lodge, and you know what temptations are on offer there, right?  Worst case scenario, it’s two days out of seven, so even if the prosecco gets me and I dive headlong into food fuckery, providing I bring my A-game between now and then it’ll be fine.

I’m trying to plan, but I may well end up treading water this week and to be fair, as long as the needle doesn’t go up, I’m kind of okay with that. I’m living my life.

Step by sticky treacle-ridden step…

 

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