All posts by Dee

Will I Ever?

In the here & now, , ,

zebedee

It’s funny isn’t it, I always imagined that if ever I established a regular exercise schedule and raised my base level of fitness a bit, from there on in I’d skip through life feeling energised whilst I glowed with vitality. As I watch the scene play out in my head, of the fit and healthy me going about my daily business, I don’t even look like a version of me I can recognise.

I’m usually wearing a dazzling white shirt, matched only in it’s brilliance by my dazzling white smile, and I’m tanned and wrinkle-free with hair that behaves itself. Oh yes, and I’m usually gliding along with fluid easy strides, collecting admiring glances as I go, at the way I’m dripping with good health. Hmmm.

Cue the sound of needle scratching across vinyl, right?

The reality is, pushing my body to reclaim a level of fitness which should have been mine all along means that most of the time, something hurts. At the moment, there is nothing graceful or fluid about my movements at all. Before I’ve even taken a step I wince in anticipation – for any of you who’ve ever suffered from Plantar Fasciitis you’ll empathise with that feeling of a constantly bruised heel which means the first few steps hurt – I have it quite badly in my left foot which gives me a bit of a lopsided gait every time I set off walking.

Once I’ve got the first few steps out of the way and my foot stops hurting quite so much, my legs kick in with a reminder of all the squatting and star-jumping and jogging on the spot which has become a regular part of their new normal, and especially after I’ve been sitting down for a while it takes me a couple of minutes to properly shake off all the stiffness and persuade them that moving is a good idea.

And right now, I’ve picked up a bit of a sore shoulder which is giving me hell. It started off as a small protest from the muscle in my upper right arm which was objecting to the new regime…lets face it, the only time it’d been required to lift a fat arm above my head in the last few years was when I went to grab a bag of cheese balls off the top shelf in Tesco. It’s hardly surprising that the kettle bells came as a shock, and now my shoulder has got in on the action too and gone into lockdown.

It amuses me no end to think that colleagues in the office who obviously know about my plans to complete a 90km trek up a mountain must look at me and think how the actual fuck is she going to pull that off when the trek from her desk to the printer appears to hurt so much?? 

When I’m out walking, once I’ve got the first couple of hundred yards under my belt, everything settles down and nothing hurts, not even my knee these days but I can’t help wondering will I ever get to the point where I can just get out of a chair and start moving without shuffling like a fully-paid-up wrinkly? I’m only fifty years old, although I guess in terms of the way I’ve abused this body over the years it’s probably older on the inside, you know?

I’m still clinging onto the fantasy in my head…I mean, I’m never going to tan, and as the fat in my face is slowly disappearing, what’s left behind has already started its slow descent south. I’m probably going to end up looking like a Shar Pei puppy, and as for having hair that behaves itself, well don’t even get me started.

But you know what, I’ll happily offer up all that in exchange for being able to walk with a spring in my step…that bit I’m hanging on to. In the short term, all this exercise malarkey is going to get me over that mountain. But longer term, I just want to walk like Zebedee 🙂

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Slowly Slowly Catchee Monkey…

In the here & now, , , ,

impatience

So I had a bulging mailbag on Friday following my post about getting stuck on the same number, and as with all things diet-related there’s safety in numbers. It was a massive comfort to know it’s not just me, you know? Although I’ve got to say, some of the posse are blessed with far more patience than me. For two weeks now my number hasn’t moved, and I think that’s bad…one of our lot has just four pounds left to lose after shedding almost a hundred, and her number hasn’t budged for five weeks. Christ on a bike, I’d be a basket case if the needle hadn’t moved after five weeks.

Nobody mentions the patience needed in this game do they? Determination, yes…willpower, yes…motivation, yes that too. All those qualities get bandied about as the cornerstone of dieting success and when I’m in the sweet spot I have all of those in abundance. Patience, not so much so. Impatience is one of my things in fact. I honestly think it came free with my vagina in sort of a buy one get one free kind of deal…I’m just not very good at waiting. For anything.

And the thing is, it’s when impatience turns to frustration that my Asshole voice sits up and starts rattling his chains. I’m dangerously close to the edge, so I spent a chunk of time this weekend scouring the world wide web for as many perspectives on weight-loss plateaus as possible. I figured if I can at least understand why my needle isn’t moving, it might help.

According to her website, Jillian Michaels (who I’ve often observed from the comfort of my big fat leather recliner whooping ass on The Biggest Loser as I vaporised a family bag of cheese balls) reckons that a weight loss plateau will typically last for around three weeks. Which made me feel a bit better, I mean she’s da man, right? Professor of making fat folk fit strong and skinny. Except then she went on to say that in her experience, a plateau usually means that you’re not paying enough attention to what you’re doing.

Which pissed me off a bit, I’m not going to lie. It kind of feels like she’s saying I’m not trying hard enough, but I shit you not I am consumed with trying. I have never worked this hard in my entire life. Mainly down to the fact that Cuba and its mountain range is now less than four months away and I’ve still got the equivalent of two arses inside my pants.

I’ll give you yesterday morning as an example…I went for the double whammy again, circuit training followed by boxing. Three quarters of the way through the circuit training as I got to the second set of one of the kettle bell exercises that nearly wipes me out, I was so tempted to feign some kind of cardiac arrest to get out of doing it. My shoulder was hurting, my chest felt like it was going to explode and it took every bit of backbone I could summon to keep going. But I did keep going. I turn up and work hard every day…trust me, even if I wasn’t a fully-paid-up wuss I couldn’t work any harder than I am.

But I did take a long hard look at what I’m eating, just in case. And looking back over three weeks’ worth of food plans, although I’m following the principles that God of Pain outlined and I’m eating within points, I have to admit it’s a bit samey. I’m sticking to the same things, at roughly the same time of day. There’s a definite order, which is something I’ve worked really hard to achieve because it goes against my nature, but it seems that routine in what you eat is a no-no.

Loads of you told me about switching up my food budget for a couple days and then reducing my points back down – apparently it’s a thing, and Jillian Michaels offers the same advice. So I’m going to give that a whirl this week. I’m also going to drink more water…yeah, that old chestnut. I know I always say that, but in practice I seem to run out of steam after a day or two, and I find myself back in the place where I really only actually drink water whilst I’m in the fitness studio sweating my cahoonies off. Outside of that, I don’t touch it, even though I know I should.

So this week I’m going to drink like a camel, and fool my body with an eating plan that is less predictable. Whatever not takes, right? I refuse to be passive whilst the bitch in the bathroom decides whether she’ll grant me a lower number. I hold the power, not her and I’ve so got this 🙂

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Therein Lies The Rub

In the here & now, ,

number

I’m not going to lie, I was a bit miffed on Sunday last week when the bitch in the bathroom refused to budge, to the point where I’ve dragged her out from her hidey hole every day this week to see whether the impasse has been broken. The only breaking news to report is that she’s still not inclined to deliver me the sort of news I want to hear. Bitch. Despite my daily pilgrimage to the Kingdom of Pain, the needle hasn’t moved in the last 10 days.

There’s something that feels so unfair in that, I mean I’m busting my balls here, you know? The Asshole’s butting in with his what’s the point conversation on the hour, every hour and more than once I’ve found myself nodding along…what is the point, if it’s not making any difference?

What this plateau has done, is to serve up a sharp reminder about how easy it is to slip into sulky child mode…I’m so ready to spit my dummy out right now because things aren’t going my way on the number. I’ve had a serious word with myself this afternoon, because I can’t risk going there. It’s only a number.

And therein lies the rub…I know it’s only a number. Logic tells me that. However, that doesn’t stop me from wanting to beat something to a pulp because it’s the same fucking number as it was ten days ago.

I somehow imagined, that once I started pouring myself into those lycra pants on a daily basis and working up a regular sweat the weight would fall off me…I’m earning loads of exercise points which I’m not spending, and on top of my daily torture I’m going out of my way to find ways to walk further and do more, yet still the bitch isn’t for budging.

How long do you think it’s good to wait when you hit a plateau before you swap out your diet? I’m flirting with the idea of cutting loose from Weight Watchers altogether and maybe counting plain old calories instead. I do like the WW diet and the flexibility it gives me but I don’t want to invest all this turbo-charged effort just to stand still, and the fact that I am is really pushing my buttons.

The exercise is doing its job, you know? I feel stronger, fitter and my shape is changing…I can feel it, it’s tangible. But the diet is doing bugger all for me right now and I’m sort of in that place that says it’s time to try something new. Having said that, I’m a bit nervous about it, I mean am I just being a drama queen? I’ve done okay so far and maybe this is just a blip…what do you guys think..?

Changing the subject altogether, I’m gutted to report the sad demise of the reclining mechanism in my fat old leather armchair. How ironic is it, that after four years of heroically tipping a seriously fat old body back and forth, now I’m seventy pounds lighter it’s gone kaput? I feel like I’m mourning an old friend. I’ve got a man with a stethoscope and a spanner coming out next Friday to see whether he can breathe life back into it, but I’m not holding out much hope…it’s like sitting side on to a hill it’s gone so wonky.

Still, on the bright side…no lazing about for me this weekend, right?

Have a good one y’all and I’ll see you on the other side 🙂

 

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And Now I Can

In the here & now, ,

keep-going

Just before I drifted off to sleep last night I spent a few minutes reflecting on the progress I’ve made over the last few months. Days like yesterday really bring it home to me how every cheese ball I resist and every bead of sweat I generate are totally worth it.

We had an off-site meeting for work, and they’d set the room out with a bunch of chairs arranged in rows facing forward…let’s just say the chairs weren’t made with comfort in mind. We held it in the upstairs room of a trendy bar in the city centre, and I don’t imagine the chairs were selected with a fat middle-aged demographic in mind, you know?

Not only were they hard, they were fairly small and arranged quite close together. Now, I was uncomfortable, but then so was everybody else. It wasn’t because I’m fat, it was because they were really shit chairs. You know what though, I couldn’t help thinking that even six months ago I wouldn’t have been just uncomfortable, I would have been in my own private version of hell.

I couldn’t have walked the half-mile or so from the car park to the venue without feeling like I wanted to die. Especially with my boss, who stands six feet five inches in his socks and has legs a mile long…even yesterday I was practically trotting along beside him as we headed in for the meeting, three of my short fat steps matching one of his leggy strides. I think I’d have feigned a broken leg six months ago just to end the torture.

The room was upstairs, so even if I’d made it to the venue, the stairs would have just about finished me off. And the toilets were downstairs in the basement, so if I’d felt the call of nature I can pretty much guarantee I’d have chosen to sit there all day with a bladder like a space hopper rather than attempting two flights down and two flights back up again.

Are you with me so far? I feel like I’m painting a picture of the old me, sweating like a stuck pig, spilling over a small hard chair after a long walk and a steep flight of stairs, out of breath with hair that would have gotten more wild and curly with every step. Miserable, and trying to hold in all my fat so it didn’t bother the person sat beside me.

And when it came to my turn to present my slides, I would have been so pre-occupied with what a hot mess I looked, there’s no way I would’ve been able to relax and get into any kind of stride with my presentation. Despite the shit chair, I’d have been desperate to get back to it. There were no tables to lean on so I could distribute my weight a bit, and within five minutes of sitting down I’d have had pins and needles in my legs and an aching arse, but even that would have been better than standing up there feeling like crap.

Worst of all, I would have felt completely trapped, knowing that this torture was only going to end after another half mile walk back to the car at daddy-long-legs speed.

Yesterday, I enjoyed the day. After a morning in the office, it was good to stretch my legs with a walk through York. Although the chairs really were shit (have I mentioned that?) I wasn’t any more uncomfortable than anyone else. I went downstairs for a wee twice without really thinking about the stairs, and when I was up at the front doing my presentation, what I looked like didn’t even occur to me as I walked the group through my slides.

The walk back to the car park at the end of the day was another opportunity to get a bit of air in my lungs after being cooped up all afternoon, and we even chatted about how the afternoon had gone, I mean get me, walking fast and speaking at the same time…who even knew that was possible.

Six months ago, I wouldn’t have made it, but now I can. I’m nowhere near Skinny Town yet, but every day I take a tiny step nearer to normal, and if I ever needed any encouragement to keep going, well that’s it…I’m really getting there 🙂

 

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Dog Spit And Other Disasters

In the here & now, , , ,

late

Have you ever had one of those days where your hands disobey every instruction handed down the chain of command from your head? In the hotel we were using yesterday for interviews, I swear I was sending all the right instructions down my arm, like for example move hand over fruit bowl and pluck a grape from the bunch, only to find that it grabbed a muffin instead from the complimentary plate right next to the fruit bowl.

The even bigger buggeration factor was that the Asshole immediately hit the override switch which could have prevented said muffin passing my lips. Well you’ve touched it now…nobody else can eat it. You can’t put it back on the plate so unless you want to walk around with it in your hand all day you’d better eat it, and quickly.

Today didn’t get off to a much better start, to be honest. Things I learned today would include the fact that it doesn’t matter how diligently you set your phone’s very loud and extremely annoying alarm, if you forget to put it on charge and it runs out of juice in the wee small hours, it’s not going to go off.

I’d left my bedroom window open overnight and I woke to the sound of the dustbin lorry outside my house. I sort of laid there for a minute before the penny dropped that my wake-up call had come courtesy of something other than my loud and extremely annoying alarm, so I felt rather smug for a moment, as I realised I could probably go back to sleep for a bit, until it went off. Out of interest I reached for my phone to establish just exactly how much longer I could sleep, to be greeted with a blank screen.

Oh dear. As the clock on the wall slowly came into focus, it confirmed that I had in fact overslept. It was ten past six, and I had an appointment in the Kingdom of Pain at six thirty…in the next town. Shit.

Now, I have a lot of respect for the God of Pain, and also fear. Mainly fear. It’s the stare, you know? No fucking chance was I walking in late.

It’s the first time I’ve got out of bed in a long time without doing the ooh ahh morning shuffle, mainly because I didn’t have time to notice anything hurting as I flung myself across the room like an exorcet missile. Charlie-dog opened one eyelid from his vantage point on the bed, confused.

Running around the bedroom first thing in the morning, usually with my underwear in his mouth, or a stray slipper is kind of in his job description, not mine and the role reversal momentarily baffled him. He was clearly up for a game though, with warp speed he joined in, helpfully licking my face, glasses and all as I bent down to tie my trainers, which just added to the confusion.

I just about made it, screeching into the car park like Starsky and Hutch, all the time cussing the dog – I was looking at the world with blurry vision due to dog-spit on my glasses which I hadn’t had time to clean. As I took them off to give them a quick wipe on my teeshirt everything suddenly became much clearer and I realised that actually, I must have gone to bed last night with one of my contact lenses still in, which is why nothing was in focus with my specs on. Oh, and I had my pants on backwards.

Honestly, sometimes it’s really hard to be me 🙂

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