Tag Archives: humour

Sleeping Downhill

In the here & now, , ,

bed

When I was talking yesterday about the cruise holiday that I enjoyed with my friend just before I took my first hesitant steps towards this new healthier life, it put me in mind of an embarrassing incident from that same holiday that I’d buried somewhere at the back of my memory bank. I actually broke the bed.

Yes, seriously. I was mortified. My friend and I had twin beds in the same cabin, and a couple of days into the holiday, I fell out of mine. The actual incident itself was too funny…I can’t even pretend that the sea was rough, in fact we were in a fairly sheltered bit of the baltic at the time and the water was as calm as a millpond.

I was also relatively sober, having only had a couple of glasses of wine with dinner but somehow, in the middle of the night as I heaved my bulk and attempted to turn over I managed to forget that I wasn’t at home in my superking-sized bed…as my full weight neared the edge of the lightweight single bed, it tipped me off and I went over the side.  Not only that, I managed to grab hold of the mattress on the way down in an attempt to save myself from falling, and pulled it down on top of me as I went.

I ended up with my head wedged between the tipped-up bed base and the bedside cabinet, with the mattress and duvet on top of me, dazed and half asleep wondering what the fuck just happened. And then, obviously, I got a fit of the giggles. My friend, who’d been asleep in the other bed, woke up at that point to utter carnage.

It didn’t occur to me as I tipped everything the right way up again and reassembled the bedding that I might have broken it, but I had a vague feeling of disorientation as I went back to sleep, and for the next couple of nights…it was only when we called maintenance to change a lightbulb in the bedside lamp later in the week that it became apparent that I had in fact been laying downhill ever since, off to one side and with my head lower than my feet.

There was nothing wrong with the bulb, turns out it was the plug which had come adrift from the wall as the bed had knocked it. And it seemed that one of the legs at the top of the bed had obviously buckled under my weight as it tipped over. As the little Philippino maintenance man emerged from underneath the wonky bed in what felt like slow motion with the un-needed light bulb in one hand, and a bed leg in the other, I couldn’t quite meet his gaze. I couldn’t bear to see the fat lady broke the bed written all over his face. I was mortified.

They swapped out the base of course, and in their polite customer-orientated way they avoided any conversation about how or why it might have happened. But you don’t need me to tell you how many times the Asshole voice whispered to me about how the entire crew would be laughing at how the lady in cabin L201 was so fat she broke the bed…or how I didn’t get a proper night’s kip until I got home because I was too scared of it happening again.

This year is going to be so different 🙂

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Pressing Pause

In the here & now, , , , ,

pause

On my commute into work this morning I was kind of half listening to something on the radio in between pondering my ‘to do’ list and trying to ignore the Asshole voice who was busy trying to persuade me that 7.15am would be a good time to eat my lunch, which was on the passenger seat behind me.

My ears were tuning in and out of the radio intermittently, and I caught the tail end of something which sounded interesting enough to prompt me to reach for the remote control so I could rewind it…duh, I immediately realised of course that the car radio doesn’t come with that option. How annoying. I could go on iPlayer at some point I suppose, but the moment has kind of passed and I can’t even remember now what it was I thought I’d heard.

I’m just so used to being able to pause the TV, or rewind and re-listen when my ears have been multi-tasking and I’ve lost the plotline, you know? I don’t know however we used to manage before that sort of technology existed… I love the way that everything can fit around me, rather than the other way around.

A good friend of mine takes that approach to her diet. She knows she needs to lose weight, and she really wants to, but her diet gets paused every time something more interesting comes along. She has the ability to just step in and out of it at will, and I’m beyond envious of her ability to do that. No way could I ever make that work for me, with my default all-or-nothing psyche.

I almost feel like I’ve paused everything else, to focus on this, you know? It just feels more important than anything else I could be doing right now. It’s my time.

My friend and I both have plans this weekend…she’s having a weekend away with a bunch of friends, and then immediately setting off on holiday for a week. Once I’ve finished writing this I’m heading up to spend the weekend with one of my besties. It’s the spring version of the craft and foodie fair that I’ve mentioned before, so I’m going to be bombarded with temptations at every turn.

I’m busy thinking about strategies to stay on the straight and narrow, where my friend can hardly wait to hit stop on her working week and throw caution to the wind so she can dive into the prosecco and hand the flight controls over to her Asshole voice…she knows he’ll probably crack on and do his worst, and she’s kind of okay with that. When she gets back from holiday, she’ll un-pause her food plan and get right back on track.

I wish I could press pause this weekend…I’d sell my granny to be able to sashay around the food hall accepting samples of whatever anyone wanted to give me like I have in the past. There will be cheeses and oils, and artisan breads begging to be dipped. Cupcakes and fudge and a hundred different flavours of cookie, and that’s before we’ve even gotten started with the cookery demonstrations. I’m going to be all kinds of torn.

The thing is, if I were to press pause, it’d be pretty much game over. Fact. Not a cat in hell’s chance of me waking up on Monday with the Asshole willing to relinquish control and move back to the jump seat…I know that. I’m just going to have to say no, and mean it. Not the kind of no which really means yes. The kind where the word no comes out of my mouth and passes a piece of fudge on its way in. Short of having my jaws wired together, willpower is my only option.

I’ve bought sugar-free chewing gum so I can fill my sinuses with peppermint to combat all the awesome smells. I’ve promised myself a really nice piece of jewellery in exchange for not allowing the Asshole to talk me into anything, and I know I’ll have to ‘fess up to you guys if the wheels come off.

I think I’ve got all bases covered, dammit 🙂

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Two Bad Mangoes

In the here & now, , ,

moods

I’ve always wondered at the ability of food to affect my mood one way or the other. Take yesterday morning for example, I’d mentally drafted out my food plan for the day before I even got out of bed. That often happens anyway when you’re preoccupied with food like I am, but I’m trying to be especially diligent this week due to my baboon-coloured bum and enforced inactivity. I barely managed three hundred doddery steps yesterday and I’m not holding out much hope that today will be a whole lot better.

As I shuffled downstairs, I was visualising the juicy sweet mangos that I had picked up at the weekend, which together with a handful of blueberries would provide me with an exotic point-free breakfast. Mango is my favourite fruit, so despite the lack of a big fat bacon sandwich I was approaching breakfast with enthusiasm, you know? No watery skimmed milk and MDF cereal on my watch.

They were monster mangoes, I mean a proper fat-girl pick. I couldn’t wait. However, as it turned out, both of them were rotten. I mean come on, both of them. Instead of sweet juicy mango coloured flesh, I was met with dark mushy stuff that gave off the kind of whiff that said don’t eat me unless you want to shit through the eye of a needle for a week. I was gutted. So my points-free breakfast back-up plan, having decided that an egg-cup sized portion of blueberries flying solo wasn’t going to cut it, was a tin of grapefruit segments.

Which would have been perfectly lovely, if my palette hadn’t been anticipating mango. When I’m in the mood for sharp zesty and citrus, grapefruit does the job admirably. When I’m in the mood for exotic juicy and tropical, it doesn’t. It scored an epic fail. And just like the flavours dancing on my tastebuds, my mood immediately turned from sunny to sour.

If I really think about it, food has always had the ability to colour my mood a few shades lighter, or darker depending on the situation. And I’ve always struggled with food envy, you know when you’re out with friends and they order food which is better than yours when it all arrives? Or bigger than yours, which is even more irritating.

If you read the Tapas, Anyone? post way back in the early days you’ll already know that the food element of any evening out can completely overtake any social aspects for me, as the asshole voice gets involved with an opinion, no matter how unwelcome.

And let’s not even get started on how many times the needle has moved from one end of the spectrum to the other, when I’ve been in the grip of a binge…I could easily move from anticipation and euphoria to satisfied and all the way along to frustrated, resentful, guilty and devastated…all in the space of an hour. And every bit of it was food-related.

I realise I’m probably coming across as all kinds of weird. But let’s be honest, if the relationship I’ve always had with food was on the right side of normal, we probably wouldn’t be here, right? Just to put it into context, much of this conflict goes on on the inside, and you generally get an even-tempered smiley person facing out to the world in general.

I know that the key to a life free of food-inspired mood swings is all about striking the right balance. Nutritious and tasty food with the odd treat thrown in for good measure. Creating a framework that works for me and which I get comfortable with to the point it becomes my new normal. And I guess that’s what this whole thing is about isn’t it…me finding my new normal. I know I’ve got a way to go but I’m working on it 🙂

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An Old Shoe In The Gutter

In the here & now, , , , ,

1804626

Do you find it as baffling as I do that I can have a day like Sunday where every minute was a battle, closely followed by a day like today, where I sailed through without one resentful thought about the fact that I was even on a diet? Not a single toss was given. It’s like my head is playing games with me you know? One minute it’s okay, and the next minute it’s not.

I was analysing Sunday’s mood in my head as I drove to work this morning…I have a long commute to work, at least an hour on a good day and often longer so it’s a good time to be alone with my thoughts, you know? And I got to wondering about the inconsistency and lack of logic behind me motoring along nicely for ages with no problems and then WHAM! getting punched in the solar plexus by a rage so strong it kind of shocked me.

It made me remember my teenage years, when I was obsessed with horses. Even way back then I was an all-or-nothing kind of girl. I’d already obsessed for a while over The Osmonds, then the Bay City Rollers, and having gotten bored of them, it became all about horses. Boys came later, but probably safer at this point not to go there 🙂

There was one horse in particular at the stables I used to volunteer at in exchange for free rides, who was my absolute favourite. He was utterly bomb-proof. I could confidently ride out knowing that whatever we encountered along the way, he’d just plod on regardless. Motorbike..? No problem. Pneumatic drill..? Yeah whatever.

Then one day, we approached an old shoe that had found its way into the gutter, and sweet Jesus as soon as he clocked it he took off like a fucking racehorse. It was a shoe!! It hadn’t seen a foot for years, it was completely innocuous and yet it totally freaked him out.

And that was sort of like my Sunday. So we have a new TV. Big deal, right? Who knew it would start such a major meltdown? I wasn’t ready for it and I don’t think I dealt with it too well but actually, unpicking it all slowly in my head is helping me to understand why it might have happened in the first place.

TV was my thing, you know? In my old life, before the diet and before this…it’s just what I did. It’s pretty much all I did. I mean sure, I’ve always had a demanding job and a busy outside-my-front-door life, but once I shut the world out and climbed into pyjamas, the TV was all I had. I’d lay in the chair and watch TV and I’d eat. It was easy, and in the moment it always felt good.

Let’s not talk about the feelings of frustration and self-loathing that would invariably follow as I gathered up the wrappers and got rid of the evidence. In the moment, everything was right with my world. And I think somehow getting our new TV, which is a bigger better version of what we had before tipped me right back into that headspace. I wanted to dive back into those moments before the self-recrimination used to kick in, where I was indulging myself with all my favourite snacks and feeling an artificial sense of happiness.

And that’s the thing, you know? That’s the sound of me hitting the nail square on the head. In the moment happiness isn’t the same as being happy. Being happy is when you can zip up a pair of pants that haven’t fitted you for years. It’s about knowing what you want, and going after it. It’s being able to walk with the dog for three or four miles on a gorgeous spring day and fill your lungs with fresh air. Doing stuff, instead of watching stuff. That’s not artificial, or fleeting…it’s being.

I’m guessing that days like yesterday have to happen in order for me to really work through this shit, one issue at a time.

But I get it, okay? Loud and clear…now enough already. No more please!

 

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It’s All In The Head

Biggest struggles, , , ,

painI’ve always believed that I was quite effective in the ‘not giving up on stuff’ department, in fact more than once I’ve confidently used the words tenacious and determined to describe myself. I can think of some cracking examples throughout my life where I’ve clung on till my fingertips bled in pursuit of something I believed in, and I’d even count one or two successful visits to Skinny Town in the past as examples I can bandy about of me being hardcore when it counts.

Except when I say clung on until my fingertips bled, I am of course speaking metaphorically. No actual bleeding happened, because that would have meant pain, and I don’t do pain. I mean don’t get me wrong, there are times in your life when you can’t avoid it – having a baby for example, or getting sick.

To be fair when my boy was born I wheeled out the diva and demanded so much pain relief I was probably stoned for his first six months, but I have been through some other tough medical stuff where I had to just suck it up. I’ve talked in here before about the run in I had with the big C which involved a fair few cut and shut jobs. Sometimes you don’t have a choice and getting on with it is the only option open to you.

But pain, in pursuit of a goal? You know, when you have a choice, and could choose not to hurt..? That I’m finding it harder to get my head around. And before you laugh and call me a fanny, I know I’m only talking about six minutes on a cross trainer on the lowest setting, it’s hardly the north face of the Eiger, right? But don’t forget I’m carrying the equivalent of a whole other person around in my pants, and no matter how large or small the frame of reference, pain is pain. I did six minutes this morning and it hurt.

I almost gave up…it was a really close call that I didn’t. The asshole in my head was determined to build on his victory from yesterday when I’d programmed ten minutes but managed only five. I did complete the other five minutes last night before I went to bed but made the rookie mistake of not warming up or cooling down – I mean come on it was five lousy minutes, who knew it even mattered? For future reference, it does.

My legs were bitching at me before I’d even opened my eyes this morning and I made the journey from the bed to the cross-trainer in the style of Norman Wisdom, a fact shamelessly exploited by the asshole voice as a reason to quit as I winced my way through six minutes of hurt.

I’m really going to need to get a handle on this. When you google phrases like pushing through the pain, or digging deep to achieve your goals, you get hundreds and hundreds of inspirational quotes, but not a single bloody one that tells you how. I don’t need platitudes, I need advice and it’s a bit thin on the ground.

I’m scared that I’ll give up…there, I’ve said it. I’m scared that when the going gets tough I’ll just fold and think nah, not for me. And I can’t. I need to learn how not to give up, and practice not giving up ’till it’s baked into my psyche. Imagine if I’m halfway over that mountain in Cuba, and I get a blister that really hurts. They’re hardly going to call mountain rescue are they? I’ll be expected to just bloody get on with it and stop moaning. I need to find a way of pulling out the kind of mental resilience which keeps you nailed on to the task in hand even when you hurt.

If there was a pit of crocodiles under the cross trainer, or some device primed to blow my buns off if I slipped below so many strides per minute I’d have no choice but to keep going…right now my kit-bag of reasons not to quit is feeling a bit light, so any suggestions would be gratefully considered 🙂

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