So yesterday was spent in a flurry of activity, in a bid to keep so busy I didn’t have time to get all bent out of shape as the food fuckery screeched to an abrupt halt. I went to bed on Saturday evening having done that thing where I’d shovelled in as much food as humanly possible because the sky was obviously going to fall in on Sunday morning when I woke to my new regime. Yes, I’m raising my eyes to Heaven too.

First day out of the traps then. It was okay, as first days go. I didn’t wake to a sense of excitement and determination, but neither did I wake in a vile mood because the chewing had to stop. I just got on with it, without a fuss. I didn’t feel very well actually, so that helped. There were a few moments in the day where I thought I’ll just…but I didn’t just anything, and all things considered it wasn’t a bad day. I cooked a healthy dinner, and I didn’t snack.

I went to the supermarket and put things in my trolley that I had no desire to eat ’til I popped. Yes, such foods exist, like kale. I bought kale. That’s dedication right there, you’ve got to give me that. I don’t mind it, tossed in a little garlic infused olive oil, with pine nuts and goats cheese but since I can’t really eat any of those things in sufficient quantity to make it taste good, it simply tastes like old feet in a bag.

I’ve  set myself up for the week, I mean I’ve even chopped endless vegetables and sealed them in zippy bags so I can’t wheel out the ‘can’t be arsed when I get in from work’ card.

What I still haven’t done though, is been on the scale. I’ve been on a five week long binge and I’m just not ready for the news it’s going to deliver, you know? This very fragile ceasefire between the part of me that wants to eat all the right things in the right quantities and the part of me that wants to eat whatever the fuck I want might take too big of a hit if my world is rocked by a number bomb. I’m not risking it.

One of my closest friends was empathising with me last week as I talked about pulling myself out of this hole, because she’s put half a stone on in the last six months. I know it’s all relative, and that’s a lot for her, but as someone who could put half a stone on in a fucking afternoon I don’t even need to see the number. I feel bloated, sluggish and unfit. I haven’t gone all the way back to ground zero but I would have got there in the next ten minutes if I hadn’t found a way to apply the brakes. So I know it’s going to be horrible.

The thing is, there are so many other measures that I can’t ignore, like the way my back is killing me, and my ankles go into meltdown when I’ve walked Charlie-dog around the block, the actual number means bugger all anyway. I’ll keep a watching brief on the ones I can’t get away from until the ceasefire is established and holding, then I’ll take the sucker-punch from a position of strength.

Until I feel ready, I don’t need to know. But I’m at least out of the traps…day two beckons 🙂

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