All posts by Dee

The Sun Has Got His Hat On…Oh Sh*t

In the here & now, ,

sun

Hasn’t it been a gorgeous day today..? I’ve been too busy at work to enjoy much of it but I did nip out at lunchtime and it was glorious. Everyone I saw looked very summery and rumour has it this warm snap is going to continue over the weekend. So, on the face of it that’s awesome, and as it happens I’m away this weekend so even better. Except. Despite losing a chunk of weight I’m still not really built for a summer wardrobe.

Actually there’s no not really about it…I’m not, period. Summer wardrobes involve light fabrics and floaty little numbers which do absolutely nothing to try and fool the world at large that underneath these clothes I am in fact a size twelve.

Drawing on years of fat experience, I’ve found that black pants and a longish loose-fitting top with some sort of handkerchief hemline is the most effective ensemble when it come to disguising the worst of my lumps and bumps. My wardrobe is full of such items, and to be fair, whilst they don’t leave anyone under the illusion that there’s skinny action going on underneath, I don’t feel exposed, you know? I’m reasonably comfortable, like I’m making the best of a bad job.

So it’s not really the tops I’m worried about.  It must be twenty years since I did sleeveless, and probably six or seven since any flesh above the elbow saw the light of day but lot of mine have three quarter sleeves and that’s practically arm naked in my book so I’ve sort of got summer covered for my top half.

The bottom half is a completely different story. I feel like a complete tool wearing black trousers on a hot sunny day, but it’s literally all I possess in my fat wardrobe. I mean I have a variety of them…black pinstripe for work (three pairs which have been worn in rotation for at least the last two years Monday to Friday) and plain black the rest of the time.  And generally it works fine, except when it’s seventy odd degrees outside and everyone else has got their legs out for the summer…I feel completely out of place, like a proper numpty.

Skirts are not an option until I’m at least another two or three dress sizes down from here. I have horrible memories of severe chafing incidents and I’m not risking that…once it’s there even trousers don’t stop the burn, right? So it has to be pants. The warm weather has kind of caught me unawares, I thought I could give it another month before I needed to worry about a summer wardrobe. Bugger.

I seem to remember buying some elasticated navy palazzo pants with white spots on for the cruise last summer but they made me look like Coco the clown so I never wore them. Maybe I’ll try and dig them out from wherever I flung them in disgust and see whether almost seventy pounds off makes me look less like I’m missing a red nose and a hat with a flower.

On a slightly more positive note, whilst I was walking around Marks and Sparks this lunchtime I did have to keep pulling up said black pinstripe pants…I’m not filling them quite as well as I once did, and they are very stretchy so they’ve kind of flexed with my shape but pretty soon they’ll be consigned to the old life pile. Happy days.

This time next year I will be embracing every single sunny day, and telling you all about how awesome it felt to blend in…I can’t wait 🙂

 

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A Helping Hand From The Gods Of Skinny

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chef with mustache showing off menu clipartSo I’d be the first one to admit that I’m not always the best at planning. I think it’s something to do with the fact that in my working life I have to be super organised and that goes against my nature, so outside work with nobody to bollock me if I’m not on top of everything it quite often goes to pot. And broadly speaking I’m okay with that, I mean occasionally I make life a bit more difficult for myself than it needs to be but things have a habit of working out in the end. I think you might call that blind faith.

Yesterday was one of those days where in respect of my food plan it didn’t work out that well, in fact it went completely tits up. You might call that the exception which proves the rule. I had an afternoon meeting a couple of hours away from home which started at lunchtime, and it wasn’t catered in the way it usually would have been. I didn’t realise this, so my plans to skip breakfast and preserve a few extra points to spend on the lunchtime buffet backfired.

By the time the meeting started I could have happily eaten my own arm. No breakfast, a long drive and no lunch either…it’s fair to say the day wasn’t going well. There was a large glass jar of Fox’s Glacier Mints on the table, and having flirted with them from a distance for an hour or so I caved and ate one, followed in quick succession by two more.

It was only the thought of everyone noticing my fat arm snaking across the table again as I went in for number four which prevented me hoovering up the lot. I wouldn’t care, I don’t even like Fox’s Glacier Mints…my Grandad always had them and I swear they wouldn’t have been his sweetie of choice, except they were the only ones which allowed him half a hope of having some left after I’d been for a visit. Normal Grandads have Werthers Original, I mean come on, everybody knows that, right?

Anyway…I’d arranged to meet a friend for dinner last night but the traffic was shocking on the way back and it took me almost three hours to drive home. Bear in mind I’m still running this body on three mints and a gallon of coffee, so it’s fair to say by the time we hit the restaurant I was really knackered, and I felt like I hadn’t eaten for a month.

You can see where this is going, right? Not the best mind-set in which to make food decisions…the Asshole voice was seething with indignation that I’d experienced an actual hunger pang or two and pulled out the stops to try and make me order the biggest fattest dinner available. He was so pushing on an open door. You’ve barely eaten all day so why don’t you have a big fat juicy steak with all the trimmings and a side order of that, that and THAT…yeah, go on then, don’t mind if I do.

Thankfully, the Gods of Skinny were on my side. It came, and it wasn’t good. Whichever muppet was in charge of the grill had ruined a perfectly good steak by overcooking it until it resembled shoe leather, I mean if that was medium rare I swear I’ll bare my arse to the world. There was nothing green on the plate at all, not even a salad garnish, and the chips and onion rings just tasted of cooking oil. Even the mushrooms came wrapped in breadcrumbs. Brown, surrounded by three sides of beige…mmmmm, lovely.

I sat there and thought you know what, it serves me right…I should have gone for a healthier choice. Just because I had a huge chunk of food budget to spend didn’t mean I had to go for the most points-laden option on the menu, you know? That’s fat-girl thinking. It was only the fact that it was truly minging which saved me from myself. I sort of picked at it and ate the mushrooms but most of it went back untouched. And despite being sorely tempted, I didn’t order the sticky toffee pudding although I have to ‘fess up to a bit of spare spoon activity with my friend’s portion.

So yesterday, the Gods of Skinny were in my corner. Today, they’re taking the piss. I collected a mystery parcel with my name on from the post office this morning after the postman left a card yesterday and it seems my utility company decided to send me a box of chocolates to say thanks for my custom. Hotel Chocolat chocolates…if only they knew.

One foot in front of the other and repeat, right?

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Cutting All Ties

In the here & now, ,



Frayed rope about to break isolated over a white backgroundOne of the thoughts on yesterday’s post from Margaret made me howl with laughter. In case you didn’t see it, having just read about my love affair with the big fat leather recliner and how I’d been reluctant to haul my ass out of it, she suggested I kick it out into the yard and torch it. Once I’d stopped chuckling I came out in a cold sweat at the prospect of getting rid of it. I mean it’s so comfy…the comfiest chair I ever owned. I couldn’t.

I know it’s got very close links to my old life, as in I’ve spent years letting the big old frame envelop my big old arse and tip me back at the push of a button to the optimal angle for scoffing cheese-balls in front of the telly. But I’m hoping I can continue my love affair with it in my skinny life once I’ve shed the fat suit. I’ll just leave out the eating bit, and maybe self-impose a few ground rules, you know? Must do x, y and z first before any contact can be allowed between arse and seat cushion…

Thing is, I’m a bit tied to that chair. I don’t mean in a dodgy Fifty Shades of Grey way obviously, I’m too old for that shit even if there was a bloke brave enough to take me on. But daft as it sounds I’m really attached to it. I mean aside from the fact that it’s a great chair, it totally lends itself to the fact that I like to sprawl.

In the comfort of my own home, I can’t remember ever really sitting in a chair with everything where it should be you know? Feet on the floor, arms on the arm rests and so on…other folk did that, but not me. Even as a kid I remember watching TV whilst sprawling on the sofa, because…well, chairs were for the grown-ups. So even though I am a grown-up now, the fact that the chair kind of unfolds itself and offers a perfect platform to drape whatever bits of me wherever I like works, you know?

Given that I’m not inclined to go cold turkey and cut all ties with it, there’s definitely a pull towards my old life that I need to watch out for, which is more pronounced when I’m sprawling in that chair. Remember in the An Old Shoe In The Gutter post, I talked about how getting a new TV knocked me sideways because all I wanted to do was lay in the chair and eat whilst I watched it? There you go…my head just seems to make that association. I need to learn to disassociate, you know, cut ties with the memories of being a lazy bum rather than with the physical objects. Basically get over myself.

There are a few people I know, or know of who’ve taken pretty drastic action to ensure that they don’t repeat destructive patterns associated with their former fat life. Sean Anderson, one of my favourite weight loss transformation bloggers cut all his ties with refined sugar a couple of years ago because he figured out that if he didn’t, he would put his food sobriety at risk. That’s a bad-assed move, because it really restricts your food choices, but it works for him and I’m glad it does. I’ve considered it myself but just like with the armchair, I’m not quite brave enough to flex those scissors. I’m not sure enough that I need to.

That said, if I get to the point where the armchair once again becomes synonymous with cheese balls, it’ll be out in that yard quicker than a flash, you can trust me on that one. I’m curious, is there anything you’ve had to cut all ties with in order to move forward with your new normal?

 

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Because, Because, Because

In the here & now, ,



lazy

Today’s been one of those days where I’ve got on my own nerves. I woke up at around 7am and cussed myself for waking too early on a day when I didn’t need to be at work. After practically frog-marching my head back to sleep, it was well after 10am before my eyelids dared to try again, at which time I cussed myself a second time for sleeping too long. Of course it didn’t occur to me that I could have set my alarm for the time I was hoping to wake up…that would have been too simple, right?

After grumbling to myself that I’d wasted a chunk of the day, I proceeded to make myself some breakfast and waste a chunk more of it by watching TV and mooching on-line. Then I fixed some lunch and burned another couple of hours. It was only when Charlie’s dog stare became so uncomfortably persistent that I forced myself to get dressed and go out and walk him. It was the very last thing I wanted to do, to the point where I almost didn’t.

To be honest, I’ve got an issue with that. I’m mad. All the way around our usual three mile circuit I’ve been battling the Asshole voice who is in fine fettle today. I feel really frustrated that some days, despite being eight and a half months into this regime it still doesn’t feel like my new normal. My head seems very quick to forget that I’ve taken a big step away from the life I was living before and still tries every trick in the book to throw that rusty nail under my wheels.

In times gone by my Bank Holiday Monday would have been spent in the armchair, and the Asshole voice has been busy trying to stir up resentment that today it wasn’t possible. And a few of the barbs have hit home, you know? For God’s sake woman you’re not a machine…it’s the only day you’ve had completely to yourself and there’s no good reason why you can’t just relax and kick back…

Listening to that, and buying into it is what allowed me to languish in my big fat leather recliner until well after 2pm. Shaking myself out of that reverie was tough, and had it not been for the doggy death stare I might have still been there now. That same voice followed me all the way around our eventual walk, pointing out just exactly how much my knee was hurting today where it hasn’t so much recently. Take an early left and head for home, this isn’t doing you any good.

Of course it was doing me good, you fucking ejit. This whole thing is doing me good. It’s a shame that my head doesn’t always get with the programme but seriously, dude, the only reason I used to spend so much time in that armchair is because it was the only place in the world that I could get comfortable. Because I was so fat. Because outside of working hours I practically lived in the armchair. Because I couldn’t get up and walk the dog for three yards without hurting, never mind three miles.

Today, I could. And I might have had the Asshole voice playing on a loop in my head, and my knee might have randomly started aching a bit but in the grand scheme of things it hardly matters that it took me a bit longer than usual to get my motor running today…the fact is I did, eventually, because I can.

Remembering things I couldn’t do before, and the fact that now I have choices where before I didn’t…that helps, on days like this 🙂

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Thanks…Enough Now!

In the here & now, , , ,



compliment

I could get used to this…having packed such a lot in to the last few days I feel like I’ve already had my weekend, and yet it’s only Sunday with a Bank Holiday tomorrow...get in. I just had my weekly encounter with the bitch in the bathroom and the number hasn’t moved this week, which is annoying, but all it drew from me was a Paddington stare and a silent fuck you. To be honest, it hasn’t put a dink in my Sunday at all – I’m still riding the euphoria of the last couple of days.

On that though…whilst I sincerely appreciate all the love and the compliments which have come my way, I’d like to point out that it would have been much more helpful if you’d all emailed and said you didn’t look bad but Christ on a bike look at the size of your arse...I’ve got the Asshole on my case now with a full blown campaign designed to persuade me that enough is enough.

In the past, it’s sometimes taken just one compliment for me to down tools. Such-a-body said I’m looking good so I think I can leave it there, well done me, I’m done. And when I actually think about it, a compliment combined with me feeling better generally has pretty much guaranteed that me and whatever diet I was doing would head directly to splitzville. Dee and the diet remain the best of friends and wish each other well for the future but are now consciously uncoupling and will be seeing other people…

I need to shut the Asshole down immediately…I’m still eight stones too heavy for my frame and whilst I’m able to do far more now than I could at my heaviest I’m a million miles away from the person I see in the daydreams which I’ve hugged to myself for the last few months, you know? Me, sashaying down the road in skinny jeans without a care in the world. Me, whizzing up that mountain in Cuba without breaking a sweat. Me, enjoying myself doing whatever without giving a monkey’s chuff about what I might look like.

I can pretty much write the script of how it would go if I took my foot off the gas now…I’d be careful for ten minutes and then lose the plot altogether, which is basically what I’ve done my whole life. I think it was Dr. Phil who used to say that the best predictor of future behaviour is past behaviour…he’s got a point, right?

Even when I did the VLC liquid diet and got to my skinniest weight I still stopped a bit short of the goal weight I’d set myself when I started because I’d reached the point where one more chalky soup would have tipped me over the edge. I mean, I might have actually even killed someone. As soon as that BMI number nudged point nought nought nought one inside the boundary of normal that was it. Finito.

What I’ve come to realise is that the number you moot as your ideal number at the start of your journey is an important psychological milestone. Actually mine isn’t a number, it’s a dress size. UK 12…that’s my holy grail. If I stop at a 14 or a 16, I’ll just continue to bounce around because I’ve set size 12 as my anchor. My cornerstone. So if I stop short, essentially I’m buggered.

I love how you all jumped in to make me feel a million dollars, you knew instinctively that I needed that confidence boost and good Lord did you ever come through for me. But I’m going to tuck those lovely words away for a while now, okay? I might wheel them out once in a while if I’m having a down day, or if the Asshole’s chewing my ear and eroding my confidence. But for now, I need to gently shut the door on them and get on with the business of getting skinny!

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