Tag Archives: determined

Having A Moan

In the here & now, , ,

I don’t imagine that any of you will have lost sleep worrying about the bruises on my nether regions following Sunday’s adventures with the saddle, but just in case you did, you can rest easy…it’s feeling much better. I mean, if I could be bothered to contort myself near the mirror and get a good look I suspect it’d still be a lovely mottled shade of purple but at least now I can sit down without wincing and I’m even starting to fancy another go.

At the risk of having a moan, I’m really struggling this week to stay upbeat and I think I’ve bumped headlong into a great big wall of dieting boredom. Progress is painfully slow and at this rate by the time I earn my skinny stripes I’ll be too fucking old and addled to enjoy that shiny new life. In the grand scheme of things I’d planned to rock skinny whilst I’ve still got some powder in me puff, but the clock’s ticking, you know?

I suppose when you’ve been on a diet for nearly eighteen months it’s only natural that boredom will set in at some point, and it has. It’s arrived with a vengeance. And you know as well as I do, my Asshole voice is going to be all over that like a rash.

I’m bored…I know, let’s eat something. Just have one. Or ten. 

It’s funny isn’t it, when I started this journey eighteen months ago I was reluctant to let my mind wander into the territory of how long it was going to take to undo the damage caused by years of food abuse. I didn’t want to run the risk of my Asshole voice screeching FUCK YOU and forcing me to dive headfirst into a big vat of cheese balls at the prospect of years of depravation.

Not thinking about it has served me well…I can’t remember a time where I spent this long following any kind of food plan. I’ve lost big amounts of weight before, but I never had this much to lose. I’m a stereotypical fat-girl…every time I’ve lost weight, I’ve found it again and then some.

By the time I arrived in Skinny Town last time I’d lost around 100lbs. This time, 100lbs will only get me a little over halfway there and I the reality of that is starting to bite. I’ve also woken up to the fact that even when I get there I’m going to have to carry on counting and measuring ’till the end of time because if I don’t, I’ll do exactly what I’ve always done and bounce right back up the scale without even pausing to admire the view.

I guess I’m just having a moment, right? I’ve done well to stick at it but my progress has slowed and the Asshole voice is trying to lead me into the is it really worth it? school of thinking. It’s a good job know it’s him, and not me.

I’m buckling in…things might get a little bumpy for a while 🙂

 

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Me? Fussy??

In the here & now, ,

You would have laughed at me on Wednesday night if you’d seen me at dinner. I was working away, and it was the end of a long day which had seen me making my usual fifty mile commute in the morning, before doubling back for a quick pit-stop at home then driving another hundred and forty odd miles in the opposite direction to get to a working dinner with one of the teams I support.

Bear in mind also that I was trying really hard to step away from the edge after the Shitbird shocker on Wednesday morning, and I was beyond determined that two days out of control wasn’t going to turn into three, or four or the rest of 2017. Yeah, I see you nodding…you know me.

Throughout the day, I’d dodged all manner of food bombs, with my shiny new resolve. I’d managed to get lost on the way to my first meeting, which was at a hotel in the city, and when I eventually got there with one minute to spare, having been stuck in traffic (which is doubly stressful when your bit is first on the bloody agenda) it was not easy saying no to breakfast pastries. There was a massive tray of pain au chocolat plonked right next to the coffee and they’d been largely ignored by everyone in the room, which my fat-girl brain still struggles to comprehend. Same again with the freshly baked cookies at coffee time.

Anyway, I resisted. Despite the best efforts of my Asshole voice, I might add, who was lobbying hard that Wednesday to Saturday this week should be classed as off-limits to all things diet-related because after all I was starting again on Sunday so technically these four days shouldn’t count.

When I got back home and packed my overnight bag I grabbed a very light lunch before heading south, and it’s fair to say that by the time I’d met up with a bunch of colleagues in the bar that night I was ravenous and looking forward to the meal. I was confident, you know? I had plenty of points in the bank and I was feeling strong.

When they brought the plates out, my fat-girl eyes were practically out on stalks. It was roast beef and Yorkshire pudding and I shit you not, the Yorkshires were the size of tyres. There was plenty of beef on the plate and a pile of vegetables…man, I was in heaven.

Until I tasted it. Meh. It was lukewarm. And I don’t think the chef had fully engaged with the concept of seasoning, I mean it took bland to a whole new level. And the vegetables were a bit soft, you know? The beef was just sort of okay…a bit well done for my taste. Actually I’m being kind, I could have soled my fucking boots with it, but the biggest letdown of all was the Yorkshire pudding…it was all style and no substance. It looked big and fluffy and amazing but it tasted of nothing. All fur coat and no knickers, as my Grandma would have said.

That said, since I usually think like a fat girl, disappointed tastebuds wouldn’t generally disrupt my ability to clear a plate, you know? But they did on Wednesday. I decided that the sides of the Yorkshire pudding reminded me of burned toast and the base was swimming in fat, so that got pushed to one side, followed by the mushy vegetables and the tough-as-old-boots beef. The mashed potato had a tinge of grey and the roast potatoes were soggy. So I nibbled at a bit here and a bit there but I mainly pushed it around my plate.

The bloke sitting beside me noticed that I wasn’t overly impressed and confided in me that his wife was a picky eater too. I just stared at him in astonishment, I mean do I look like a picky eater? I weigh two hundred and forty one fucking pounds so I can’t be that picky, can I? It proper amused me.

Eff why eye, I turned down dessert too, which was chocolate brownie with walnuts and clotted cream, and by the way it looked amazing, so I think it’s fair to say my wobble is over, and I’m back in the game. I’m feeling strong 🙂

I have two treats in store for you today…first of all, we have a brand new guest post on our Thoughts From The Posse page. It’s written by a very special lady who has taken her courage in both hands and shared her story, which I have to say is pretty amazing. It made me laugh, and it made me cry. She’s a bit nervous about putting herself out there, and I know she’d love to hear from you if you can relate to her journey.

The second thing I want to share with you is a brand new feature. It’s been a while since I tinkered with the format hasn’t it?  I figured it was time to mix it up a bit.

Lots of people have written to me and talked about the fact that I post my Shitbird picture every weigh day. Mainly folk think I’m slightly bonkers to even think about going public with what I weigh, but I’ll tell you what, it’s a really effective accountability tool and a handful of people have said they wished they had something like that to keep them playing with a straight bat…well, be careful what you wish for!

If you’d like your very own weight-tracking page, consider it done.  Nicola, who shared her story today is my guinea pig, and she’s taken the plunge with her very own Shitbird page…check it out, and if you’d like one of your own just let me know…I’ll happily build one for you. After all, we’re all in this together, right?

 

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It Could’ve Been Worse

In the here & now, , ,

So I’m not going to win any prizes for slimmer of the week am I, but all things considered it could have been worse. One quarter pound on isn’t the biggest disaster in the world, right? I get it. More than that, I probably deserved it to be fair. I don’t think there’s been a week in the last twelve months where I missed my exercise goal every single day, but I did last week. In my defence, for at least four of those days I felt like crap, although it didn’t stop me from eating my weeklies from the cocoon I created under my poorly blanket. I probably shouldn’t have done that, but I felt entitled.

It’s easier to accept a crap output when you understand the reasons why, don’t you think? I never seethe with resentment and fantasise about taking a hammer to the Shitbird Scale when I know I’ve had a bad week, because it sort of feels fair. When I accept responsibility for putting on a shit show, I have no axe to grind with a shit number. No, I reserve those fantasies for weeks where I’ve brought my A game and the Shitbird’s just being spiteful. Anyway, last week was shit, so let’s move on. I’m going for two pounds this week. Are you in?

I had a dabble with some fake tan last night, and you know what, it looks pretty good. I thought I’d better point it out in case you looked at the Shitbird’s page and thought I had dirty feet. I don’t look as dark as I did when I had the spray tan, but I definitely look like I’ve been toasted. It’s a product called Skinny Tan, I don’t know if you’ve seen it but they reckon it hides cellulite too. Which is awesome, but I can’t confirm or deny those rumours because I only rubbed it in to just above the knee. No point wasting it on no-man’s land, right? It doesn’t seem to have done much for the lumpy bits on my upper arms if I’m brutally honest, but then nothing coming out of a tube is going to fix that particular war zone.

The thing is, I feel nice with a bit of colour, and isn’t that all that matters? When I opened my eyes this morning I saw one of my new shirts hanging outside the wardrobe, with the necklace I’m going to accessorise it with strung over the hanger. I had my shoes picked out, and my pants…it’s so hard to explain to a skinny string bean that the privilege of feeling good in your clothes isn’t simply a given…I don’t think I’ll ever take that feeling for granted, you know? Eighty four pounds ago, I didn’t even notice which shapeless monstrosity I was pulling over my head on any given day, much less enjoy wearing it. Put me in front of a mirror these days and I preen like a fucking budgie.

That’s just one of the dozens of ways in which it’s nicer being me now, as opposed to then. I’m starting to feel like my life is fitting me better, and not just my clothes.  It’s what keeps me going forward. That, and you lot, who never fail to lift my mood when you reach out and tell me about your own journey, and struggles and triumphs.  I can’t even find the words to tell you how awesome it is when one of you takes the time to let me know that what happens in these pages helps you too.

Come on…let’s smash it this week 🙂

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Done Fakin’ It!

In the here & now, ,

I am full of the joys of spring this morning, in fact it would be fair to say that I haven’t stopped grinning since yesterday morning’s conversation with the Shitbird Scale. And it’s not like I bagged a massive number or anything, it just wasn’t nought point fuck all, and that on its own was enough to inspire my happy dance. One and three quarter pounds off, which takes me under my pre-Cuba weight, and that means it’s all virgin territory from here.

Well, I say that…it’s virgin this time around. Obviously I’ve popped this particular cherry many times before, on the way up and on the way down again, in fact I’ve hung out in the two thirties forties and fifties most of my adult life. But, this time is the last time, right? I don’t intend to see this number again. It had a nice ring to it yesterday. Two hundred and forty four pounds. Today it’s already getting old. When I weighed two hundred and forty six, two four four was appealing. Now it’s not. Now two four two looks like the place to be, dare I even say two four one and I’m on it like a car bonnet.

Most exciting of all is that the experiment with how and when I spend my food budget did seem to give the needle a bit of a shove, you know? I mean I know it’s only week one and it might have been a complete coincidence, but all the same I’m going to do it again this week to try and keep the momentum going. I know a few of you were going to give it a go too and I’m dying to know how you’ve all got on.

I barely worked out last week, in fact I only managed one class. God of Pain has restricted me to the only one I can do with my knackered knee, and breaking news on that front is that the physio thinks I’ve torn the cartilage. He’s suggested I go get an MRI scan to confirm one way or the other. If it is torn, I’ll probably need surgery but you know what, I refuse to get down about it. I’m frustrated more than anything because apart from the fact that it hurts like a bitch, it’s stopping me from working out.

And who the fuck ever thought those words would come out of my mouth?

I’m slowly cottoning on to the fact that those are my actual thoughts. I mean, seriously…on one day last week I had open season on my food budget, and I wimped out. I had permission, a hall pass for a whole day with a ton of points at my disposal and I went to bed with some of them left on the table. And now, I’ve got a bone-fide excuse not to work out, and instead of hurling myself into the recliner with sheer relief that I don’t need to break a sweat any time soon, I’m pissed off at the interruption to my fitness schedule.

I’ve talked a good game you know, for the last 18 months in terms of working all this out but there was definitely an element of fake it ’till you make it…saying and doing are all very well, and credit where it’s due, you know? Doing when you don’t feel it is tough. You have to dig in, when you don’t really want to. Thing is, when you do start feeling it…well, that’s the game changer isn’t it?

The moment you realise you’re done faking it, is the moment you dare to believe it’s for keeps 🙂

 

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I Didn’t See That One Coming…

In the here & now, , ,

So here was I, coasting along under the rather cocky misapprehension that wrestling with the Asshole voice was a pastime well and truly relegated to days gone by. I mean, he’s been silent for so long that surely he must have relocated to someone else’s head, right? Sadly, no. Yesterday I was subjected to four hours of torture over a cheese and pickle sandwich.

I found myself in a catered meeting at work facing my old nemesis, the buffet. I knew it was coming, and I was cool with it, you know? I’ve spent the last 81 days being a rock star with my food choices so I strode confidently into the meeting room, and I even picked my seat before throwing a glance towards the lunch table. Let’s just say it hasn’t always happened in that order…in the past, whilst trying to give the impression that I’m holding back, I’ve been known to cover the area between door and lunch table at warp speed, knocking people over like skittles in my haste to fix a plate.

Yesterday it was a good buffet, I mean it was all seeded wholemeal bread with green stuff, and some wraps with chicken as well as a big bowl of crisps and some cakes.  No sausage rolls or fries or wedges, just a handful of puff-pastry savouries…really, aside from the crisps and cake it was wholesome and healthy. And I made careful choices from the sandwiches, mentally calculating my weight-watcher points as I went. The crisps didn’t worry me, and I barely noticed the cakes. It’s all good, I remember sitting and thinking I’ve so got this…look at me, I’m cured!

Famous last words, right? After we’d finished eating, and there were just the dregs of the buffet table left, well that’s when the fun started. There were two cheese and pickle sandwiches on a tray that nobody had picked. Me, I’d gone for the ham salad ones, and a chicken wrap. I’d scrutinised and rejected the egg mayo and BLT and of course the cheese ones on the basis that they contained stuff from the naughty list and were too point-heavy. I was happy with my choice, right up until I clocked those two leftover cheese butties.

Go on…they won’t kill you. They’re tiny, probably not even an ounce of cheese between ’em… (as I looked at two wedges of cheese clearly cut with a generous hand)…you’ve been so good and besides you’re having chicken for tea and there’s hardly any points in that, so you can afford the cheese. You deserve cheese, you really do. It’s not cake, or crisps, is it? That would be a bad choice but you know cheese is good for your bones. 

On, and on, and on, for four hours. The meeting finished at 4pm, and as I threw a glance back over my shoulder as I left the room and mentally waved farewell to those two cheese sandwiches which were looking a bit curled around the edges by that point, I still wanted them.

I probably could’ve spared the points but you know what, I recognise cheese as a trigger food. It wouldn’t have been the two cheese sandwiches which left collateral damage, it would’ve been the pack of Cathedral City strong cheddar that I might have picked up on the way home which just begged to be grilled until it was bubbly and golden and on my plate. 

Truth is, I can’t allow myself to get the taste. If two curling sandwiches can torture me for four hours, then allowing it over the threshold is never going to end well is it? It was hard not to eat them but on reflection, by the skin of my teeth I escaped unscathed.

Guess I’m still a work in progress after all 🙂

 

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