Tag Archives: weight loss

Stone Cold Easter Egg Sober

In the here & now, ,

easter

Happy Easter one and all…I hope you have a wonderful day whatever you’re up to. Me, I have nothing special planned, other than today being the day that I’ll get my fat wardrobe loaded on eBay, as well as walking with Charlie dog and playing host to my mum who will be with us later.

I think it’s only the second time in my life where I haven’t eaten chocolate for breakfast on Easter Sunday. I almost feel like I’m breaking the law. I must admit I had a quick two minute sulk before I emerged from under the duvet this morning at how unfair it all was that more than likely everyone in my neighbourhood except me would be in a sugar-induced coma at that very moment, but then I looked across my bedroom at the mountain of fat clothes which are too big for me to wear now, and I got over myself pretty quickly. See? If I’d moved that pile of stuff when I should have, it wouldn’t have been there to sweeten my mood today.

On our walk yesterday, my thoughts turned to the shopping I needed to do afterwards, and I couldn’t help wondering exactly how many Easter eggs I was going to get mugged by as I walked around the supermarket. Not to mention the fact that currently cheese balls are on offer two for one. It all made me feel a bit under attack, you know like a double-whammy of temptation.

I kicked that one around for ages, before deciding to simply go to a different shop. I’ve already ‘fessed up about my momentary weakness this week with the cheese and pickle sandwich, and fries so I’m not in the mood for flirting with the danger zone. Bargain and cheese balls have proven to be a killer combo in the past and I wasn’t going anywhere near it.

Seriously, earlier this week when I was in there I must have walked past and eyed them up at least half a dozen times, arguing with the Asshole voice the whole time. Thankfully yesterday’s diversionary tactics paid dividends and I came home without either, having treated myself to a pack of the biggest fattest cherries you’ve ever seen.

I did make myself a sweet treat for breakfast this morning though, have any of you tried the skinny banana muffins from the video on my foodie stuff page? I’m not gonna lie, you will have tasted better muffins. But if you steer clear of the butter and icing sugar – neither are needed -they hardly cost any smart points, and they are sweet. To be fair, once you’ve sampled a few batches and gotten over the texture (which is distinctly un-muffinlike) they’re not half bad.

Anyway…for those of you who accepted the three-pound-challenge challenge last Sunday, I hope you did better than me 🙁 Half a poxy pound gone this week…I’m slightly underwhelmed. Still, I started off the week with a bigger promise than I managed to deliver in the end, so I’ve written this week down to experience, and I am about to unfold a beautiful shiny new Weight Watchers week. How did y’all do?

Sod it, I’m having another crack at this. These are the reasons why this week I can do it. The clocks have gone forward overnight therefore I have an extra hour of daylight. That means when I get in from work, it’s not going to be dark and I can do my three mile walk with the dog. No excuses. I have no functions, catered days or days where my schedule is going to be anything other than in my complete control…it’s a golden week and I’m totally up for it.

Knowing you lot are cheerleading on the sidelines will spur me on…no cheese and pickle whoopsies this week m’lud, that’s a promise 🙂

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Time To Make Lemonade!

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HNY

Well, posse, who’d have thought it? I keep scratching my head and looking around for someone to explain to me how the hell we got to the end of the year already. I hate to say this with virtual champagne corks popping all around me, but for the longest time this has been my least favourite night in the calendar. I mean sure, back in the day when I could comfortably drink my own bodyweight in champagne and party ’till the cows came home I used to like it, but for at least the last twenty five years New Year’s Eve has been up there with colonic irrigation as one of those things I’d rather have no part of.

I’m planning to retire with a good book way before midnight and just let 2016 settle gently around me, although my four-legged bedfellow will have other ideas once the fireworks start going off at midnight. Considering he’s of working gun-dog descent, he has a real issue with bangs, and he’s usually as miserable as me on old year’s night.

The problem I have with it is twofold. Firstly it’s an opportunity to take stock of where you’re at in your life, what you’ve achieved this year and what your dreams are for the next. I don’t know about you, but during my annual stocktake I’ve never been able to place a tick in the box for being filthy rich, skinny and dating a bloke who’s who’s hung like a donkey. Life gave me lemons, right?

Secondly it’s a date that pretty much demands that you eat, drink and be merry. How arrogant. Let’s revisit yesterday’s post about being stubborn shall we..? I’ll enjoy it on my terms if you don’t mind. And in any event, forget the booze, I’ve been pre-occupied most years by how much I can eat before midnight because the New Year diet is looming.

But this year feels different. Different better. I’m not about to embark on a fresh cycle of failure marked by a succession of false starts because I’m already in the groove. I’m just about three dress sizes down, and this morning I fastened my watch on the next notch on the strap. Such a little thing but a moment, you know? Oh I know I’m still a heifer, and I will be for a good while yet, but before long I’ll be a foxy heifer with bone structure…awesome.

This year when I look back, I smile. I’ve eaten within a food plan for one hundred and thirty six days without stepping a toe out of line, and I feel strong, and sure-footed. I don’t always make the best choices, but I spend my budget, and that’s that. I discovered a love of writing and now I can’t imagine a day when we don’t chat. I’m fitter, and whilst I won’t be winning races anytime soon, I’m moving. And you guys…well, what can I say? One hundred and thirty six days ago I didn’t know you, and now we’re practically family.

2016 is the year when I’m going to get reacquainted with my collar bone. You’ll be able to tell where my shoulders finish and my head starts, imagine that. I’ll be able to get out of my armchair without having to rock myself up. And oh my god, the first time I can sit down and cross my legs…well I think I’ll burst with being giddy. It’s the little things that will mean the most you know? I mean I know I’ve got exciting stuff planned but it’s being able to do things that most folk take for granted which will give me the biggest thrill of all.

I’m excited about the future, and I hope you are too. I’m excited about trying that size 22 top on tomorrow that I’ve been visualising since Vegas. I suspect I might need to breathe in a bit to make it fasten (!) but really, who gives a crap…second skin or not, if the zip fastens it’s a goal, right?

Wherever you are, whatever you’re doing on the eve of this clean, bright shiny new slate, I’d like to thank you from the deepest bit of my big fat heart for your company and your unwavering support over the last few months. I wish every single one of you a very healthy, happy and skinny New Year. I hope that we’ll continue this journey together…2016 is our year chaps.

We’ve got this 🙂

 

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Leftovers..? All Yours Sweetheart.

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leftovers

Depending on what time I’ve hauled my sorry ass out of bed on Boxing Day in the past has largely dictated whether I’ve woken up thinking about leftovers, or smelling them. I think it’s fair to say that both my son and I are fully-paid-up card-carrying members of the leftover Christmas food fan club, in fact I might even go as far as to say that between us we’ve probably regarded it as the highlight of Boxing Day.

I can recall more occasions than I’m comfortable admitting to where we’ve pitted our wits against each other in the ‘who gets to the leftover pigs in blankets first’ race, and I’m here to tell you that the sound of the microwave being activated downstairs in the kitchen on Boxing Day morning has historically invoked the kind of reaction that alarm clock manufacturers the world over could only dream about. You see, whoever gets to the tupperware first is in charge of allocation…otherwise known as who gets what. And if that’s not you, damn straight you’d better get there and supervise, so you get your fair share.

So, when my son found out that he had to work on Boxing Day this year, as you might imagine, he was more than a little bit pissed off. To be fair, he wasn’t worried about working as such, I mean why would he…there’s no contractual obligation to work so it’s triple time thank you very much. But jockeying for space with the dollar signs in his eyes was the vision of coming home to pillaged tupperware containing a stringy bit of turkey and the odd unwanted sprout. He was worried that I’d eat Boxing Day whilst his back was turned.

As we were bidding our respective goodnights last night before heading for bed I casually threw it out there that I wasn’t eating any leftovers this year…his face was a picture. The sort of face, I imagine, that you might see on a lottery winner, as the implication of picking those numbers sinks in…well, something close anyway. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’ll definitely join in with the turkey, that’s fine…but the crunchy butter-rich sage and onion stuffing balls, the leftover roasties and the crisped up pigs in blankets are all his this year. Although it near kills me to say it, they were yesterday’s treat.

You probably don’t need me to tell you that the asshole in my mind has almost combusted himself into an early grave by jumping up and down trying to change my mind. They’re behind me in the fridge as we speak, and they flirt with me every time I open the fridge door. On a scale of 1-10 I want them to the tune of at least 15, but I’m thinking instead about that size 22 top that I pledged my allegiance to when I got back from Vegas…I remain determined to fit into it on 1st January.

I can’t have both. And one is more important than the other…so I picked that one. And whilst the chatter from the tupperware tubs is driving me bat-shit crazy, I’m happy with my choice.

Today, Boxing Day or not, is the start of a new dieting week. I’m remembering how I worked out a plan to see me through our trip to Dublin, and Christmas, and I’m way beyond proud that I managed to stick to it…I’ve had to dig deep, but I’ve done it and trust me when I say if I could bottle this feeling and sell it, I could retire on the proceeds. And you know what else..? I’m 3lbs down since my last check-in with the bitch in the bathroom.

Epic 🙂

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The Diet Saboteur

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sabotage

I was catching up with a good friend this morning and we were comparing our respective dieting progress in the way that only two fat people can. Do you know what I mean when I say that? I mean, sure you can talk to a skinny string bean friend about how it’s going, and they can nod along, and understand it on an intellectual level – you’re eating less, and trying to move more in the hope that you’ll eventually be able to wear pants which are only expected to accommodate a pair of legs and a bum, instead of holding it in, hoisting it up and making you look at least two sizes smaller than the reality. Your skinny friends will undoubtedly listen, support and encourage but they can’t understand.

Anyway, during the course of our conversation, my friend talked abut something that I’d never really thought about before – she reckons that one of her colleagues at work is doing her level best to actually sabotage her diet. I was outraged of course, on her behalf and I’m sure this woman’s ears must have been burning, wherever she was. But fancy that, someone who would actively look to find ways to make the wheels come off your diet…what an arse! But you know what, now I’ve had my eyes opened to the concept, I can think of someone I used to know who did exactly the same thing.

When I say sabotage, I don’t mean someone who waits until you’re out of the room and quickly lifts the lid of your sandwich to spread an extra layer of butter…it’s a bit more subtle than that. But someone sitting back and observing, making all the right noises whilst getting to know your achilles heel, and then going out of their way to put temptation bang in your path. That’s what I’m talking about. I started thinking about the reasons why someone might do that, because it just strikes me as a really mean thing to do. Insecurities of their own maybe? Fear that you might end up skinnier than them, or maybe they just don’t like the attention that you’re getting…? Hard to tell.

When I think back to the girl I used to hang out with when our boys were small, who, the more I think about it was an out and out diet saboteur, I remember she was always really supportive in the early stages of my latest diet but once the weight started to shift, so did her attitude. It’s like she didn’t like the idea that I was actually going to succeed and go all the way. I wouldn’t even begin to understand her motivation for doing that but even though twenty odd years has passed between then and now, I’d love to go back and ask her.

Her modus operandi was to tell me how good I was looking – even though I was more often than not still at least 40lbs overweight – and challenge whether I really wanted to lose any more..? Perhaps I should have a break for a while and just maintain, after all I was starting to look a bit drawn. You’ve done so well…have some cake. Of course the asshole in my mind was on it like a car bonnet and between the two of them I caved pretty much every time. I think there’s something about stopping before you get to your target weight or size which makes you less inclined to feel the sense of achievement which might just help you stay in that golden place.  So I’d linger in the suburbs of Skinny Town for ten minutes and then hop on the gravy train back to Mooseville. My responsibility of course, but her and the asshole were definitely partners in crime.

It’s a weird feeling to think someone might be deliberately engineering a situation to make you fail. That said, being aware of dieting torpedoes in any shape of form isn’t necessarily a bad thing…it’s just another tool to keep me on my toes. I’m blessed that everybody around me this time are really rooting for me to succeed…but ask me again 100lbs from now ok?

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Fairy Tale Lite

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bunting-clip-art-622216.

One of my biggest flaws over the years has been my tendency to look at life in a ‘Once upon a time’ kind of way – I’ve always been blessed with a really positive optimistic outlook, and whilst that’s great, I’ve learned to my cost that it’s best not to cross the line and expect life to mirror a full-on fairly tale…very rarely does that charmed life exist. Don’t get me wrong, there have been times – really really dark times – where fixating on a positive outcome has prevented my mind from wandering to places it might otherwise not have entirely recovered from, and that has served me well. But marry the optimism with naivety and blind faith that things will work out ok and that’s where things have occasionally descended into farce.

My problem has always been that I just don’t see the big red flags waving at me as I breeze through a given situation. Actually that’s not strictly true…I see them, I just don’t recognise them for what they are. To you and the rest of the world they would look like red flags spelling danger…to me, they look like bunting. They may as well have balloons attached. The only way I can describe it, is that sometimes the line between wanting something to be a certain way, and believing that it is that way gets really blurred.

The best examples I have are nothing to do with dieting…it’s a pity that my blog relates to dieting rather than dating because for every dieting anecdote I could share with you, I have ten which involve my quest to find Mr Perfect, many of which would make your toes curl and your hair stand on end. Following the incident in Brazil with the thong, which I covered in a previous post, I called off the search and have remained contentedly single ever since.

Much as a life companion is an appealing thought, my wish-list is fairly demanding and I’ve kissed more frogs than I care to admit. Hell I even married a couple of ’em. I have one of the best track records E.V.E.R for being drawn to fantasists, winos and weirdos, all of whom appear utterly charming to me so that’s definitely an area of my life which should remain undisturbed for now.

I’m trying really hard to anticipate the bumps in the road that I might encounter on the way to Skinny Town, so I don’t have to worry about failing to see them until the very moment I’ve face-planted and everything’s gone to shit. To be fair, whilst the question of relationships doesn’t directly relate to my weight loss journey, as anyone who identifies as an emotional eater would agree, often the force-field surrounding them can have a massive knock-on effect on the speed at which you can fall off the wagon.

I’d be very confident that should the opportunity present itself to remain locked in a room for the next 18 months, or alternatively be swathed in relationship-free bubble wrap, nothing will shake the dieting resolve or knock me out of the sweet spot. Therefore, that’s what has to happen…it’s part of my strategy.

Whilst I appreciate that’s a bit like someone who doesn’t eat chocolate saying they’re not going to eat chocolate, I’m nailing my colours to the mast on this one anyway.  My life will remain a Prince Charming free zone. As you peel away the dress sizes there’s no getting away from the fact that your stock value rises on the relationship front. The smaller you become, ironically the less invisible you are – you’ll have to trust me on this one, having skittered up and down the size continuum several times I’ve experienced it first hand.

My fairy tale, on this occasion is the lite version, no Prince Charming required 🙂

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