So, I was skeptical, I must admit when my friend threw her suggestion into the mix a few days ago about always putting her face on because it made her feel better. I thought long and hard about whether I could really be arsed. First thing in the morning I’m always pushed for time anyway, and these days it’s more than a two minute job you know? But hey, it was my second promise to myself, and I’m a woman of my word, right?

It’s been a bit of an eye opener. I mean first things first, it’s done sod all from an eating point of view – it’s been a challenging week actually in that respect, brought on yesterday by me accidentally eating 15 points’ worth of Ferrero Rocher dark chocolates that someone had left in the office.

Picture the scene, right? I’m sat at my desk minding my own business when one of our colleagues from another department waltzes in with some fancy new chocolates. Don’t you just hate it when that happens, someone always seems to bring out a new chocolate treat when I’m on a diet. But anyway, I’d behaved myself up to that point, fruit for breakfast and some low-ish points soup at lunchtime so I had plenty of good girl in the bank. I took the packaging, and pointed them up…3 smart points each, oh hell go on then, don’t mind if I do.

You know when something just doesn’t live up to expectations..? It wasn’t nice. I ate the half I’d bitten into and threw the rest in the bin. Yes, you did just read that right…me, throwing chocolate away…that’s how bad it was. But then I spotted the Ferrero Rocher chocolates on top of the filing cabinet, and thought what a fabulous idea, I’ll have one of those to take the taste away. It worked too, at least the first one did. I’m not sure whether numbers two, three, four and five served much of a purpose if I’m being honest.

So clearly putting my slap on didn’t have any effect at all on the asshole voice, but genuinely, it has made me feel better about myself, and I’d go so far as to say that it felt like some of the people in the building looked at me yesterday for the first time. Let’s keep it in perspective here for a minute, I’m still carrying 118lbs’ worth of extra arse that has no right to be in my pants, so I’m not saying I’m transformed but I’ve sort of hit them with a bit of a triple whammy this week.

New clothes, two sizes down now that are fitting me for the first time, wrapped around a work-in-progress shrinking silhouette. I’ve put my face on every day to go to work, and the third thing that I’ve not mentioned are my new glasses. Normally I wear contacts but my prescription has changed recently and the new ones haven’t come yet. However, the glasses I ordered at the same time have, and I’ve been wearing them which has added to the general confusion…who is that woman in the HR office who looks a bit like Dee?

It’s a good feeling, I’m not gonna lie 🙂

And by the way, thank you so much for your lovely emails about the pictures I put on the ‘about me’ page, and the Facebook page. Now I’m 50lbs+ down, I’m more confident about sharing the ‘before’ photos…I’m somehow able to divorce who I am now from who I was then. Funny isn’t it, I think the fact that I don’t ever remember that face looking back at me shows how much I avoided mirrors in recent times.

Our old friend Mr Steele took the time to email again, yes that Mr Steele, he of BOTSG troll infamy. It appears he still reads along, which is surprising since his last note seemed to suggest that he didn’t care much for what we do around here. I think there might have been an attempt at a compliment buried somewhere in his email, however he didn’t quite pull it off…why am I not surprised…

If you’re reading this, Sir, pointing out that my face used to look like a dinner plate isn’t helpful. Yes, I’ve lost weight and I’m flattered that you noticed, however I am still the same person. And you are clearly still a nob.

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You might remember, I made a promise to myself at the weekend that I’d finally get around to making an appointment this week to see someone about my dodgy knee. After digging out my health insurance pamphlet to get the telephone number, I’d kind of imagined an unhurried consultation with a handsome looking bloke, with a smattering of very distinguished silver at his temple that I couldn’t help noticing as he spoke to me with a deep and reassuring – some might even say sexy – voice.

That’s what the picture on the pamphlet led me to believe was going to happen. He’d gently feel my leg whilst I admired his bedside manner, and if luck and a strong headwind was on my side I might even get to go back to get my leg felt again, on a regular basis.

So, we all know it was never going to work out like that, right?

Having made the call and limped through all the appropriate hoops I was offered a telephone consultation with a physiotherapist. They call it a triage service, and it’s designed to establish whether or not you need to actually see someone, or whether you’re just old and fat and need to shut up and get used to snarky joints.

I took the call in a little meeting room at work next to our communal office, and if anyone had walked past and glanced through the glass window whilst I was occupied on the phone, well let’s just say eyebrows would have been raised. During the course of the thirty minute consultation I bent, stretched, squatted and lunged my way though a hundred questions whilst Mystic Meg on the other end of the phone tried to make a diagnosis.

Which, it turned out, was that I’m old and fat, and better get used to the odd ache and pain because it’s not leaving any time soon.

On the one hand I’m relieved that there’s nothing actually wrong with my knee. On the other hand it’s devastating to know that this red-hot poker has taken up residence under my kneecap for no other reason than the years of body abuse I’ve inflicted upon it, driven by the broken relationship I have with food. It’s resulted in me having the joints of someone way older than my actual age, and it seems I should be thinking more along the lines of managing the discomfort than getting it fixed.

Shit. Well, there we are then.

She’s happy for me to keep walking, and the hurt machine is fine too. She didn’t even miss a beat when I told her about the mountains in Cuba, although she did say I might want to pack enough ibuprofen to knock out a hippo, which would no doubt come in handy. On a brighter note she reckons it might hurt less if I lost some weight. Oh yes, and avoid running…that was a blow, obviously.

I didn’t bore her with the details, or tell her that I was already in the zone. But that’s at least something to hang my hat on. And it doesn’t hurt all the time, that’s the thing. It’s just when I’ve walked a fair distance and then I sit down, the first steps after getting up again are agony, like it all locks up or something. 

Well, fine. If that’s the deck I’m playing with, I’ll just crack on. I never had much sympathy for folk with a self-induced hangover, and this is no different at the end of the day…I made my bed and all that.

C’est la vie 🙂

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Reflecting back on the last few weeks, I’m acutely aware that I’ve fielded more than my fair share of stress. Maybe stress is too harsh a word, and I’m just being a drama queen. Pressure is probably a better word, but in any event it’s fair to say that 2016 has done it’s level best to get right under my skin since it opened for business just a few weeks ago.

I’ve dealt with some fairly crappy personal stuff, or should I say I’ve supported someone very close to me through something which turned their life upside down and when you love someone it’s hard not to feel their pain as your own, right? Work has been incredibly busy and I’ve had to bring it home on evenings and weekends just to keep up, and my mum is fairly needy of my time now she’s in her twilight years.

And as if all that wasn’t enough, I decided to chuck my blog headlong into the spotlight – I mean don’t get me wrong, I’ve loved all the excitement, I’ve enjoyed the process and the unbelievable support from you lot, and it’s been lovely to welcome all our new visitors…the whole things has been awesome. But throwing the contents of my head out there to be judged hiked up the pressure massively, since I’m standing shoulder to shoulder with the best of the best without a clue what I’m doing really.

A couple of times I’ve thought, you know I don’t think I can keep this up. Thankfully those moments were fleeting and somehow all the balls stayed up in the air…the plates kept right on spinning. And it’s interesting, because I don’t ever remember flying solo through such a period of high pressure before. I’ve always relied on my trusty wing-man, food.

Using food as a coping mechanism is a deeply ingrained habit, and yet this time, miraculously I’ve managed to wade through the mire without sacrificing the integrity of my food plan, and I’ve continued slowly pushing the boundaries of my fitness at the same time. Who knew that was even possible..?

It hasn’t been perfect, nowhere near. Although I’ve stayed within my daily and weekly points, I wouldn’t say my food plan’s been particularly clean. And yes, there have been occasions where the only thing to stop me caving under pressure was a mouthful of something naughty. But it’s happened in a controlled way.

I’ve savoured it, counted it and carried on putting one foot in front of the other. I can’t even start to tell you how many times in the past I’ve completely gone off the rails when the shit has hit the fan. How often I’ve walked around the supermarket stocking up, because I’m not going to have much time this week and best be prepared…

Nothing wrong with being prepared, except I generally wasn’t stocking up with broccoli if you see what I mean. I’m very well practised at stitching a comfort blanket together from a selection of trigger foods and disappearing underneath it until whatever crisis has passed, only to emerge days or weeks later right back at square one, and then some.

Now I don’t even begin to know what kind of magic is in play this time, but for the first time I can remember, I appear to be thinking beyond the next mouthful. Every time I start to feel even a tiny bit out of control, my mind immediately wrestles the asshole voice to the ground and somehow, I’m able to navigate my way through.

I’m building up quite a mental show-reel of moments where I’ve fought a battle and emerged with the upper hand, and I play it on a loop until the moment passes. I often wonder whether when people look at me they see the cheese sandwich or the cheesy bugle whizzing around in my eyes like a fruit machine.

Life is still a little nuts. I’m still running around like a headless chicken, but I’m a skinnier headless chicken than I was yesterday, and the knowledge that I’m fatter today than I will be tomorrow gives me a bigger kick than the cheesiest of cheese balls, right? I can’t tell you how much I’m hoping that my wing man has buggered off for good 🙂

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