Tag Archives: embarrassed

The Queen Of Empty Promises

In the here & now, ,

I actually contemplated taking a picture of the Shitbird scale yesterday morning without me standing on it, sort of like a shitbird selfie. In the end, Wednesday’s fall from grace turned into a five day free-for-all, and yesterday was going to be the day it all came good, except it didn’t.

The last thing I wanted to see was a shitty number staring back at me as I struggled with everything else, so I ignored the Shitbird and refused to make eye contact. It was after 11pm before I finally accepted that you lot would likely pelt me with rotten fruit if I tried to wriggle out of being accountable so there we are then, over five pounds in the wrong direction when I finally hopped aboard. Fuck.

I deserve it, to be fair. I’ve been ridiculous. Again. And I don’t know what to tell you. It’s weird you know, more than once since I started writing the blog, some of you have mentioned that other weight-related blogs you’ve followed have disappeared like a fart on a breeze as soon as the person writing it fell off the wagon and when their diet fell by the wayside, so did their writing. I’ve even noticed it myself, you know? There have been two or three people whose journey I’d become invested in, whose posts have become so infrequent as to be virtually non existent. And that’s a real shame, I mean personally speaking – and from a purely selfish perspective – I need you lot more than ever when I’m under the wheels.

It is more than a little bit embarrassing though. I mean, here am I writing a weight loss blog and not losing any fucking weight. More than that, I keep writing about how determined I am and how it’s all going to be great from here on in because this time I’m going to do it except I never fucking get it done. I’m the Queen of empty promises, and that sucks.

For the first time this weekend I kind of understood the reluctance to put words down on the page, but I don’t think it was because I didn’t have anything to say…you know me, I always have words even if I’m just talking shite. The only way I can describe it is it’s like I was rebelling against talking to you lot because you’re all part of my journey, and since me and the diet weren’t even on fucking speaking terms I didn’t want to engage at all. I didn’t log into the blog after I posted on Friday until I was forced to record the shitbird number last night. And that never happens.

I come in here every day, even if it’s not a day where I’m writing. I check out who’s passed through, I respond to my messages, I approve and reply to comments and weed out the trolls and the spam. It’s my safe and happy place and it’s become a big part of my life. But this weekend I just dissed it completely. Messages went unanswered, which is just rude, and if you’ve taken the time to write to me and I haven’t answered you yet I’m really sorry…I will eventually, of course I will. But I’ve been a weird version of myself just because…well, it all feels very fucked up at the moment and I don’t know why.

Answers on a postcard please..? I’m not in control.

However. Today’s a new day, right? Deep breath and start again 🙂

 

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Moments Like That

In the here & now, ,

pig

I couldn’t help wondering when I skidded sideways into the optician’s waiting room yesterday morning with seconds to spare before my appointment, what opinion I’d form about me, if I was having an out of body experience and watching myself from a distance. I was bang in the middle of a serious menopause moment, you know one of those where that prickle of heat starts in your toes and works its way upwards ’till you feel like you’re about to spontaneously combust?

My face was glistening with a sheen that screamed crazed middle-aged hormones at work, and my hair, totally banjaxed by the moisture rising from my skull had gone wild at the back and flat at the front. I looked like the lead singer from Flock of Seagulls, in fact I’m surprised that nobody stopped me for an autograph.

It’s fair to say that my day had gone tits up from the minute I opened my eyes. I arrived at the Kingdom of Pain at 6.30am prompt to do my fat furnace class, and you know that yellow T-shirt that was so hard-won, the one that tells everyone that I’m a citreenie..? Well I only went and bloody forgot to put it on didn’t I…I mean, whaaaat??  In my defence, I was on 6am autopilot and I just grabbed the first T-shirt I came across in my gym drawer.

It seems I’m not the first. God of Pain even has a special garment reserved for folk who forget…it’s known as the yellow vest of shame. If I’m doing the citreenie workout I need to look yellow, them’s the rules.

So out came this hideous day-glo yellow mesh vest, made from the kind of nylon that makes you sweat like a stuck pig. I had to pull it on over my T-shirt and it was a snug fit, bunching up around my waist with the bottom of my own T-shirt sticking out underneath like a tutu. I looked ridiculous, and I don’t think I’ve ever sweated as much in my life. Of course my fellow athletes took no pleasure whatsoever in my predicament, judging by the amount of piss-taking they managed to squash into the next hour 🙂

I then had precisely 45 minutes between getting home and leaving for my eye appointment, during which time I had to shower and dress, dry my hair, put a load of washing in, get supper going in the slow-cooker and make lunch to take to work – so there’s no wonder I hit the opticians looking like the wild woman of Borneo. And putting my face on without my contact lenses in seriously hadn’t helped the situation, although looking at the world through soft focus meant I didn’t realise it at the time.

I’d gone to get fitted for some new contact lenses – I usually wear daily disposables, but I don’t want to be fannying around in the rainforest with grubby fingers trying to put them in or take them out, and I don’t want to wear my specs. So the eye guy had agreed to order me some lenses for the trek that I can leave in for two weeks at a time. Despite realising that my face looked like it’d been made up by Picasso once I’d put them in, they felt fine but he still needed have a good look.

What was different compared to the last time I went, was that yesterday I fitted in his chair. This time last year, I didn’t, and having my annual contact lens check-up was excruciating. I’m supposed to rest my chin on a little ledge inside a framework so he can look through his machine thingamabob at a close-up of the lenses in situ.  The framework is fixed to a table, and the table needs to be wheeled close enough to my chair so that I can stay seated and lean into the machine…problem was, last time my belly wasn’t letting that table get anywhere near me.

If I’d had a neck like E.T I’d have been okay but as it was I ended up standing, and bending forward with my bum sticking out backwards and my back screaming at me in protest whilst my chins battled to stay on the ledge so he could gaze into my eyes.

But that was then. Yesterday I took a seat like any normal person would whilst he did his thing…no drama and no embarrassment. Moments like that…well, they make every bit of hard work worthwhile, right? 🙂

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Space Invader

Freeform thoughts, In the here & now, , ,

FLS

Now, I’m guessing it depends where you sit on the fat to skinny spectrum as to whether you’ve really given the matter of space any serious consideration. I’m talking about personal space, and how much of it we take up as we go about our business. I say this because until I joined the realms of the super-obese I don’t recall really thinking too much about how much space I was taking up in this world, but once the penny dropped with me that I might be taking up too much of it to the point where it was pissing other people off, I became super-tuned in to the vibe, and it’s become a major pre-occupation.

We’ve all seen the debate raging about whether fat people should pay extra for flight seats and to be honest, count me in – my lard, my responsibility – just don’t make a fuss and for God’s sake don’t make me sit across two seats…that would be less about equity and more about treating me like livestock. They may as well run down the aisle blowing a bugle and shouting ‘Make way for the moose!!’

When I emerge from my chrysalis as a skinny string bean I’d welcome the chance to fly for peanuts if they want to just hitch up my seat space a little so it cradles my bony ass nicely and frees up a little more room for someone with a bit more padding – everybody’s happy. I’m sure in this age of technology it could be done. And if there does happen to be any aircraft seat designers reading my blog today, can you please sort your shit out with the seat belts whilst you’re at it?

I get it, I get that life is designed for Joe average.  And if you’re a fat person who genuinely believes that fat is as beautiful as skinny, or if you’re a skinny person who’s wandered in here by mistake (you’re very welcome but stop screwing your face up like that, you’ll get wrinkles) then you probably won’t be able to relate to what I’m saying. Which is fine, because we’re all different and if you’re happy, I’m happy. And a tiny bit envious.

You don’t know how lucky you are if you don’t feel the need to tiptoe through life trying to take up as little a space as possible. You won’t feel mortified if your arse or your chunky arms encroach onto someone else’s personal space when you sit beside them and pretend not to see FFS written right across their averagely proportioned face. You won’t feel the need to hold everything tucked in as tight as possible ’till your core muscles quiver, in the hope that you can prevent your body spilling over your quota of space and invading someone else’s. It’s not possible to pick up your body baggage and place it on the tray table in front of you to make room for someone to sit down like you can with your carry-on and I hate how apologetic that makes me feel, as though I’m being deliberately rude just for…being.

Writing it down really helps to focus the mind…you have no idea how much I can’t wait not to feel like that any more.

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