Tag Archives: willpower

Buns Of Steel

In the here & now, , , ,

buns

So the coffin-sized cardboard box which got delivered at the weekend amid much excitement is no longer posing as a one-box-obstacle-course in my kitchen thanks to my friend and knight in shining armour, who popped in to work his magic last night after work. Under my close supervision – I was in charge of removing plastic wrapping and polystyrene – he effortlessly assembled the gleaming beast of a cross-trainer which is now firmly in-situ, plugged in and ready to make me hurt.

After he’d left last night I spent a bit of time reading the instructions, you know so I can get the most out of my workouts…okay lets be honest, to make sure I understand how to put it on the easiest setting 🙂 Hey, I need to ease myself in gently, right? I was more than a little bit alarmed to note their disclaimer that ‘too much exercise could injure your body or can cause dead’. Best go a bit steady then chaps.

I did a quick few steps on it last night, not in a serious workout kind of way…I was wearing my slippers at the time, and having moved it around the bedroom with the help of my boy into several different spots until I was happy with the feng shui (otherwise known as making sure it didn’t obscure the view of the TV from my bed) I felt like I’d spent two hours in the gym already, damn thing weighs a ton.

But I went to sleep with much anticipation of waking up this morning, leaping out of bed and pulling on my gear so I could crack on with an invigorating hour of exercise to set me up for the day. I’ve bought new trainers and everything, which even match the colour of the frame on this thing. I’m telling you, woman and machine in perfect symmetry, how on earth could it result in anything other than poetry in motion?

So, this morning then…well. My new trainers fitted. Sadly the same can’t be said for my exercise gear, which to be fair hasn’t seen the light of day since God was a lad. I mean I know lycra is stretchy but it’s apparently not quite that stretchy. Naked it is then. Well, naked with new trainers. It’s ok, the shutters were closed and there was only me and the dog, who was watching me quizzically from a safe distance…come on, you can’t blame him…he still remembers the power plate.

After two false starts, when I couldn’t seem to get it on the easiest setting only to discover that it was already on the easiest setting, the penny started to drop that this might not be quite the walk in the park that I’d imagined. I altered the timer to ten minutes from the hour that I’d brazenly keyed in to start with, and off I went.

One minute in and we’re doing okay…feeling it a bit in the legs but it’s all good. Two minutes in I’ve noticed that if I look up I can see my reflection in the TV which is directly in front of me…let’s not dwell on that other than to say I need some new exercise duds, to avoid any mental scarring which might result from being exposed to this image ever again.

Three minutes in and I’m starting to hurt. The asshole in my mind has sprung into action and he’s busy telling me that I’ve done enough…don’t overdo it on your first attempt, you must have burned off two thousand calories by now, so why don’t you go downstairs and make bacon, you’ve earned it! Four minutes in and I’m seriously starting to think that this might actually result in dead.

I made it to five minutes. And then I made it to the bed, and laid there for a bit wondering what just happened. Eventually I made it downstairs to the kitchen, on legs made of rubber, and as I sit here typing this I can’t help looking across at the fruit bowl, and wondering just how many grapes I could eat with the seven fucking calories I just burned. SEVEN!!! I could have earned more picking my nose.

Now, my promise to you is that I will complete that other five minutes at some point today. I’m going to take the dog out for a good walk in a minute, and isn’t that going to be an interesting experience on rubber legs. I haven’t quit…I’ve just paused. And I’m starting to think that perhaps I won’t have buns of steel by Friday. But no quitters here 🙂

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Time To Make Lemonade!

Freeform thoughts, , , ,

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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Digging In

In the here & now, , ,

turtle

Today has been a better day – yesterday was impossible. I was in such a contrary mood, I even annoyed myself. I did get dressed and go out and walk in the end, in fact I walked even further than the previous two days just to prove a point. To myself. I’d spent at least a couple of hours beforehand arguing with the asshole back and forth before I shook him off, it was pathetic. And who even knew that so many excuses existed for not getting dressed and going out for a walk…he tried them all. And I ignored them all…I felt euphoric, if a little footsore when I got home. Me: 1- Asshole: 0.

Totting my three expeditions up, I’ve walked just over nine miles in the last three days, and I’m quietly impressed at how this fat old body is responding. I mean I’m not dead for a start…who knew that would happen! I’m still dragging 282lbs of lard around with me so I’m not sashaying up hills with any particular style or grace, but I’m doing it.

What I find rather astonishing is that on the first walk I did, on Boxing Day, I had to stop three times at various points on the hill to catch my breath and rest my legs for a minute. Sunday I did the same walk, but despite setting off with legs and feet which were already a bit sore from the day before, I only had to stop twice, and I did the walk ten minutes faster than the day before. Before you nod off, I swear I’m not about to start listing how far and how fast on a daily basis, but it surprised me. I didn’t expect it to get easier without a fight you know?

This is a first for me, I mean real unchartered territory. I’ve never pushed myself out of my comfort zone before where exercise is concerned. Dieting, yes. I’ve been a dieting Ninja on and off over the years, but exercise, not so much so. I did spend a year or so going to the gym when I was dating Mr Muscle and I did become very fit but I was a skinny string bean back then, and eight years younger to boot so it’s a different ball game. It feels like a lifetime ago, and I don’t remember having to really dig in.

It’s a bit scary to think that the trek I’ve signed up for will involve walking about twelve miles a day over pretty tough terrain, for five days on the bounce. I could honestly shit a brick whenever I think about that, but I tell you what, I am determined not to be the old fat one at the back of the pack. I want to stride off that bloody mountain first like a proper game old bird. That’s what’s driving me…I suspected that having a longer term fitness goal might help me on this journey but I didn’t quite anticipate how much of a fire it was going to light underneath these feet.

Mind you, if you’d seen me climbing the stairs to bed last night after three big walks in as many days you’d have fallen over laughing. Lets just say I’d have made it to the top far more quickly if I’d had a Stannah Stairlift…these old bones in this fat body were creaking with every step.

But it can only get better, right?

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A Day For Locking Horns

Biggest struggles, , ,

horns

So you’ve kind of caught me in a bit of a stand off with the Asshole in my mind as I sit down to write today’s post, in fact it’s safe to say that he’s doing everything within his power to live up to his name. He’s feeling cocky this morning, having scored his second handbag victory in the space of a week late last night when I was chilling out by having a mooch on line. It’s a good job I’m going back to work tomorrow, I’m feeling relaxed and happy with too much time on my hands and it’s proving to be a recipe for disaster.

With one win under his belt he’s clearly got his eye on a hat trick and is coming at me hard on two fronts. Firstly food…it’s late morning and I’ve just eaten a decent brunch by anyone’s standards…skinny bacon, scrambled egg and mushrooms with two small pieces of toast. It was lovely, and it was enough. But he’s insisting that I need something sweet to ‘finish with’. And when I say sweet, I mean like chocolate sweet, or hob-nob sweet. I tried to counter-propose with a clementine but he was having none of it.

He’s got the terminology down pat – and why wouldn’t he, as someone who lives in my head he’s spent the last fifty years hearing it. The minute my Mum or my Grandma laid down their knife and fork, sure as eggs is eggs the first words out of their mouth would be what shall we have to finish with? as though eating a meal in itself wasn’t enough. So it was something accepted as the norm you know? My mum, in her eighty third year still says it now, and plays by those rules and yet she’s the size of a sparrow, how does that work?!

A big fat cookie or a piece of homemade cake always materialised after every meal, and the Asshole sees it as an opportunity to push on an open door, since no matter how much time has elapsed between then and now, to me a meal always feels incomplete without something to finish with. Most of the time I don’t think too much about it, but today I’m obsessing about it, and he isn’t helping.

He’s also trying his level best to persuade me to have a total lazy-bum pyjama day. Yesterday and the day before I did a couple of really long walks with Charlie the dog – I posted a picture on our Facebook page showing just how far, did you see it? It was a little under three miles, with some long steep hills thrown in for good measure. Now I appreciate that to anyone who’s moderately fit, that’s child’s play, but genuinely it’s not very long since I couldn’t walk a hundred yards without getting screaming back ache, swollen ankles and a red hot poker through my knee. So to me, it’s a big deal.

And boy do I know about it today, every muscle in my lower body is hollering at me. My feet ache, my calves ache and I have a blister. And I know my son would happily walk the dog today if I asked, seeing as he’s off work. So I could have a pyjama day…the conditions are right and I have no other need to go out.

I really really want to do that. I’ve got stuff on sky+ that I’ve had on series record and I want to build a huge plate of something to finish with, lay back in my big fat leather recliner and watch TV, all day, in pyjamas. I’ve spent many happy hours doing exactly that. To be fair that’s probably why I’m the size of a moose, right?

Once I’ve written this I’m going to find a plaster for my blister, stretch my calf muscles a little bit and quit moaning, Days like this really suck but I just need to pull on my big girl pants and get on with it. I might be locked horns with the asshole but over my dead body is he going to emerge the victor. No way.

Just so you know, me getting my shit together and going out with the dog is being driven by 25% wanting to build on the good stuff I’ve pulled off this week and 75% not wanting to have to ‘fess up to you guys that I’ve spent the day in my armchair surrounded by cake.

So thank you…you continue to work miracles 🙂

 

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Leftovers..? All Yours Sweetheart.

In the here & now, , , , ,

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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