Tag Archives: blowing the budget

Naughty Loves Company

In the here & now, , , ,

naughty

So I survived yet another new-to-me class yesterday morning in the Kingdom of Pain, called Shape Attack. Walking into the building at 06h30 knowing my shape was going to be under attack for the next hour didn’t exactly make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside but I’m definitely getting used to the scary names. In terms of managing my expectations, they work really well…I can hazard my best guess at what’s coming.

I quite like going to classes I haven’t been to before…it’s possible to go through a whole hour with hope in your heart that the next exercise is going to be a bit easier than the one that’s killing you right now, whereas in the ones I’m more familiar with all hope of that dies before I even walk through the door.

Given that the God of Pain is busy sunning his buns on holiday, a lady I haven’t met before was running the session and I must admit at first look I thought I might need to be a bit scared, I mean this girl had muscles. Not in a looks like a bloke kind of way, far from it in fact. Seriously, she was just body perfect from head to toe.

There wasn’t an inch of her that wasn’t toned or sculpted. Maybe she shot out of the womb doing bicep curls or something, because she’s clearly been at this for years. At one point she reached for the mobile phone which was driving the music, and about ten muscles popped out to have a look around…way to go to make a fat fifty year old feel fat and fifty.

She was actually lovely, in between the bits where she pretty much tried to kill me, and I survived the experience having shuffled and grunted my way through her own particular brand of torture.

So you’d think, that having greeted the day by attacking my shape for a whole hour before even hitting the shower, I’d be nicely set up for an on-track day where my eating was concerned wouldn’t you? I thought that too. I was all over it, I stopped at the supermarket on my way to work and bought prawns to have with a salad at lunchtime, and lots of fruit to get me through the day from a snacking perspective.

And it was all going really well, until mid afternoon when my friend uttered the words I fancy some chocolate…and that’s all it took.

On the outside, she got a skinny-girl response. I held up a bunch of bananas and offered her one, you know encouraging her to stick to her diet and satisfy her craving with a suitable alternative. Right on cue, the Asshole voice jumped in with FUCK OFF WITH YOUR BANANAS, I WANT CHOCOLATE TOO!! And then refused to leave me alone for the rest of the afternoon.

Since no chocolate was easily accessible (except the Mars Bar sitting on the desk next-but-one to mine, which was immediately placed under surveillance by its owner) the craving almost passed. I thought I’d dodged the bullet. All until I found myself near reception, where they actually have a box of naughties which you can plunder in exchange for a donation to charity. And my chocolate-fancying friend, who was with me started having a root through the goodies. So of course, I did too. Naughty loves company, right?

And that’s how I ended up with a slab of ‘dark chocolate cherry crunchy cake’ on my desk. Which, in the end didn’t taste of dark chocolate. Or cherries come to think of it. It wasn’t even particularly crunchy if I’m being completely honest. After the first bite I suspected it. After the second bite I was pretty sure, but it was only after I’d polished off all seventeen fucking points’ worth that I knew for certain it wasn’t actually that nice.

It’s safe to say dinner was a little bit lean last night…so much for my clean eating week. Two steps forward, one step back…muppet 🙂

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Eating My Efforts

In the here & now, , ,

veggies

So I’ve got about a week and a half of exercise classes under my belt, and despite continuing to fantasise about my old life in the armchair, the asshole voice in my head hasn’t really made any significant dink in my determination to drag this fat old body to a better place. Between you and me, I reckon we’re both a bit scared of pissing off the God of Pain. Who, by the way critiqued my food diary before the weekend and made it clear I had to do better…it didn’t pass muster.

Which made me think. I’d stayed within points. Sort of. Well I had, it’s just that I’d used up all my exercise points too, of which I’d earned loads because I did loads. So I ate loads. God forbid that all that effort should go unrewarded, right? God forbid that so much as one point to which I’m entitled might sneak by uneaten…not on my watch.

And, dammit, I realised that the asshole voice had sneaked in through the back door and presented a very compelling argument that since I was working so hard, all those extra points I’d earned could be spent on whatever I liked.

Which is how come my food diary was peppered with two sticks of chocolate here, and a handful of Pringles there…looking from the outside in, I can see why I deserved harsh words. It probably didn’t read like the food diary of someone who was determined to lose weight, you know? Viewed from an athlete’s perspective, my fat-girl thinking stuck out like a sore thumb.

And hands up, it’s a fair cop – the needle didn’t move on the scale this week. I ate within points starts to sound a bit hollow when I’m faced with the reality that I’m in exactly the same place that I was in last week – all that effort, and all those sore muscles just to stand still.

Even as I’m writing this, the asshole voice is busy being all outraged and trying to convince me that muscle weighs heavier than fat, and that I’ve actually lost weight and gained muscle…yeah, nice try dickhead, technically that may be the case but after one week and change I’m not buying it. I just ate my efforts, is the long and short of it.

The additional points that all my hard work brought home should’ve been points in the bank, but in exactly the same way that I’m hopeless at saving money, there were available food funds which burned a hole right through my pocket and I pretty much ate them as soon as I’d earned them, on the basis that I was allowed. I wasn’t doing anything wrong. Hmm…innocent face my arse, I wasn’t doing it right either.

So, lesson learned… time to regroup. God of Pain gave me a suggested diet plan which is all around clean eating and to be fair, it’s not a million miles away from what I’ve been eating, just without the crap that wormed its way in through the back door. I’m not going to stop counting Weight Watchers Smart Points, even though he doesn’t approve of diets…but, I take his point about when I’m eating and more importantly when I’m not eating. I can do better.

I’m going to go for a turbo-charged week. I’m going to eat well, space it out properly, carbs before a workout, protein after, and no crap…I refuse to tread water for another week because of what I’m putting in my mouth when I’m sweating my cahoonies off on a daily basis to support my journey. This week, I’m going to make every bead of sweat count 🙂

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Resisting Assholio’s Agenda

In the here & now, , ,

no to cake

So after a very busy four day working week I’m like a dog with nine tails at the prospect of logging off from work-related matters for a whole week. My downtime is rolled out in front of me and some of it’s already filled with awesomeness, although I’ve got to be honest there are more than a few challenges too. I’m going to need to be really really wary of the Asshole voice, whose agenda will undoubtedly be a bit different to mine.

I’m setting off in the morning for a lovely two night break in a swanky hotel with one of my best friends, and our mums.

My agenda; relax and laugh a lot. Make full use of the hotel gym and spa, get a little bit of walking in and a mooch around the local towns, and have some really nice meals within my food budget.

The Asshole’s agenda; relax and forget the diet. Ignore the gym, enter the spa only if you don’t have to lift a finger and someone is going to deliver you to the edge of heaven. Eat a full breakfast every day followed by lunch, afternoon tea and a nine course meal washed down by several bottles of decent plonk. Get hammered with your friend both nights because you’re on holiday.

We get home on Monday afternoon and I’m just kicking back at home until Thursday, when I’m due to drive down to meet my favourite bunch of girlies for our bi-annual get-together…I haven’t seen them since Vegas in October, and I’m too giddy for words. We’re staying at our favourite log cabin complete with hot tub in the middle of nowhere, for three nights.

My agenda; relax and laugh a lot. Have a nice long walk in the surrounding countryside every day, pace myself with the Prosecco and ignore most of the chocolate and other Scooby snacks. The weekend is about the company, not the food. Gossip, watch movies and share my deepest darkest secrets but never take my eye off my food budget. Remember I have an appointment with the bitch in the bathroom when I get home on Sunday.

The Asshole’s agenda; screw that, of course it’s about the food, don’t be ridiculous. It’s a fine tradition carved out over the last ten years that you get there, get hammered, peak by 8pm on the first night and apart from hot tub time never make it out of pyjamas all weekend. Eat maltesers, onion rings and cheese balls till your eyes pop out and hang your head in shame if one drop of Prosecco remains undrunk. Forget about the bitch and let her do her worst…you can start again Monday.

See what I’m up against..?

I’m not as worried about this weekend, I’m fairly confident that I can make good choices and have a great time. I’ll definitely use the gym to counteract some of the things which might tempt me and I’m looking forward to that as a bit of a change. I’m planning to over-walk on Tuesday Wednesday and Thursday to build up a little buffer for my Smart Points because next weekend is going to be the killer, you know?  It’s the first time since I started the diet that we’ve had one of our girly weekends, and seriously, we usually eat our own bodyweight in crap.

Focus, Focus, Focus. I can do this…

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A Helping Hand From The Gods Of Skinny

In the here & now, ,


chef with mustache showing off menu clipartSo I’d be the first one to admit that I’m not always the best at planning. I think it’s something to do with the fact that in my working life I have to be super organised and that goes against my nature, so outside work with nobody to bollock me if I’m not on top of everything it quite often goes to pot. And broadly speaking I’m okay with that, I mean occasionally I make life a bit more difficult for myself than it needs to be but things have a habit of working out in the end. I think you might call that blind faith.

Yesterday was one of those days where in respect of my food plan it didn’t work out that well, in fact it went completely tits up. You might call that the exception which proves the rule. I had an afternoon meeting a couple of hours away from home which started at lunchtime, and it wasn’t catered in the way it usually would have been. I didn’t realise this, so my plans to skip breakfast and preserve a few extra points to spend on the lunchtime buffet backfired.

By the time the meeting started I could have happily eaten my own arm. No breakfast, a long drive and no lunch either…it’s fair to say the day wasn’t going well. There was a large glass jar of Fox’s Glacier Mints on the table, and having flirted with them from a distance for an hour or so I caved and ate one, followed in quick succession by two more.

It was only the thought of everyone noticing my fat arm snaking across the table again as I went in for number four which prevented me hoovering up the lot. I wouldn’t care, I don’t even like Fox’s Glacier Mints…my Grandad always had them and I swear they wouldn’t have been his sweetie of choice, except they were the only ones which allowed him half a hope of having some left after I’d been for a visit. Normal Grandads have Werthers Original, I mean come on, everybody knows that, right?

Anyway…I’d arranged to meet a friend for dinner last night but the traffic was shocking on the way back and it took me almost three hours to drive home. Bear in mind I’m still running this body on three mints and a gallon of coffee, so it’s fair to say by the time we hit the restaurant I was really knackered, and I felt like I hadn’t eaten for a month.

You can see where this is going, right? Not the best mind-set in which to make food decisions…the Asshole voice was seething with indignation that I’d experienced an actual hunger pang or two and pulled out the stops to try and make me order the biggest fattest dinner available. He was so pushing on an open door. You’ve barely eaten all day so why don’t you have a big fat juicy steak with all the trimmings and a side order of that, that and THAT…yeah, go on then, don’t mind if I do.

Thankfully, the Gods of Skinny were on my side. It came, and it wasn’t good. Whichever muppet was in charge of the grill had ruined a perfectly good steak by overcooking it until it resembled shoe leather, I mean if that was medium rare I swear I’ll bare my arse to the world. There was nothing green on the plate at all, not even a salad garnish, and the chips and onion rings just tasted of cooking oil. Even the mushrooms came wrapped in breadcrumbs. Brown, surrounded by three sides of beige…mmmmm, lovely.

I sat there and thought you know what, it serves me right…I should have gone for a healthier choice. Just because I had a huge chunk of food budget to spend didn’t mean I had to go for the most points-laden option on the menu, you know? That’s fat-girl thinking. It was only the fact that it was truly minging which saved me from myself. I sort of picked at it and ate the mushrooms but most of it went back untouched. And despite being sorely tempted, I didn’t order the sticky toffee pudding although I have to ‘fess up to a bit of spare spoon activity with my friend’s portion.

So yesterday, the Gods of Skinny were in my corner. Today, they’re taking the piss. I collected a mystery parcel with my name on from the post office this morning after the postman left a card yesterday and it seems my utility company decided to send me a box of chocolates to say thanks for my custom. Hotel Chocolat chocolates…if only they knew.

One foot in front of the other and repeat, right?

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Six Fat Ladies On My Washing Line

In the here & now, , , , , ,

washing

I’ve always liked a nice washing line, in fact I think it’s fair to say that washing lines are one of my things. There’s nothing nicer than the smell of fresh blown washing, and there’s few things more satisfying than the sight of a long line of freshly laundered clothes bobbing in the breeze. It’s a pretty day today, lots of blue sky between the clouds, and for the first time in ages I pegged my washing out.

I observed the rules of course…anything that happens to part of a matching pair has to be pegged next to its partner. Each garment has to have matching coloured pegs. Where possible things of the same garment family should be grouped together, like trousers, or tops. Allowances can be made by exception, for example pyjamas have a top and pants but can’t be in two places at the same time, so a matching pair generally trumps garment family…

I know what you’re thinking. It is ridiculous, I can see that. My boy, who isn’t afflicted by the same degree of washing line OCD enjoys winding me up by breaking every single rule on the odd occasion his laundry bypasses the tumble dryer and makes it on to the line. Today though, they’ve been pegged by my own fair hands, and all is in order. I should be happy…and yet.

I looked outside to check on the weather and caught sight of my line of washing with the breeze through it, and there were six pairs of my black trousers lined up next to each other looking for all the world like six fat ladies getting their groove on. With the wind inside them they looked monstrous.

Is that what my arse looks like from the rear view..? Still..?  I can’t believe that something so stupid can turn my mood upside down so quickly. The asshole voice in my head went berserk and my new-found self confidence took a proper battering. How ridiculous is that? I can’t remember the last time I felt like this, and there’s absolutely no logical reason why I should.

Looking at them made me feel fat. And when I feel fat, I start thinking fat. I’ve been grazing all day, it’s now 4pm and I’ve got no points left. None. My weekly ones are all spent too. The sight of my cavernous pants drove me to loiter near my boy who was eating hangover carbs in the form of pizza and I turned the kind of eyes on him that even Charlie dog could only aspire to. Having checked that I had enough points left, he begrudgingly handed over two slices of heaven which didn’t even touch the sides of my mouth as they headed south.

I’d love to tell you that the pizza tasted amazing but the truth of it is I ate both slices so fast I barely tasted them. And there it is, right? The compulsion to anaesthetise my feelings with food when something makes me feel bad. Alive and kicking at the first fucking opportunity. I honestly despair that despite all the work I’ve put in, unpicking the knots in my thought processes and rebuilding the way I think piece by piece, I can still come totally unglued when my self-esteem take a knock.

I don’t wear size twelve pants. I know this. It shouldn’t come as a shock to see six pairs of fat pants going through the laundry. The fact that I’m on track to be in a size twelve this time next year should be enough…today, it wasn’t.

I guess we all get days like this, right?

Tomorrow’s a new day, with a shiny new week’s worth of smart points. Looking on the bright side, I’ll be starving when I wake up tomorrow given that I can’t eat anything else today so if I was forced to find a silver lining in this shitty day at least I’ll greet the new week feeling like Kate Moss 🙂

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