Tag Archives: pissed off

A Question Of Perspective

In the here & now, , ,

I remember taking part in an experiment, donkeys years ago, at a children’s museum, you know one of those places where it’s all about experiential learning, and touching and feeling stuff? The experiment that stuck in my mind was in a room dedicated to the five senses, and there were all kinds of neat things lined up for little hands to touch.

I remember these three tubular steel bars, all fixed to the wall next to each other. The one on the left was really cold, the one on the right was really warm and the one in the middle was just at room temperature. If you grabbed hold of the middle bar with your right hand when it had been holding the warm tube, it felt cold. If you grabbed hold of the middle bar with your left hand after it’d been holding the really cold tube, it felt warm. It was all about helping little minds to understand perspective, right? A clever demonstration that something can feel different in different circumstances even when it’s exactly the same.

My perspective on the dirty number offered to me by the Shitbird scale this morning is different to my perspective on that same number last time it stared back at me from the little digital display. Then, I was hitting the number from a position of power. It was a smaller number than the week before, and you bet your sweet ass I felt skinny as I snapped the picture.

This morning, off the back of two or three dodgy days where my food plan has gone a bit off reservation, and I’ve felt horribly out of control to the point where my fingertips are shredded from where I’ve clung on so tight to my place in the sweet spot, instead of making me feel like a rock star, that same number was practically hollering fat bastard in my face as I reluctantly picked up my phone to record it for posterity.

And share it with you guys, obviously. Good, bad or ugly, at the end of the day, that’s the deal…I promised.

One number, and two different perspectives. I celebrated it last time, but right now, today I want to smash the fucking Shitbird thing with a big hammer and make the number go away, because it’s jumped in the wrong direction.  A lot.

Now, logic tells me that I cannot possibly have gained over four pounds from just two days of questionable choices. Sure, in the old days when I was power eating that might have been a possibility but I haven’t gone all out and had a balls to the wall binge. Not even close, but I have eaten too much. I know that.

Making the protein balls which contain nuts and dates and peanut butter and honey wasn’t exactly the brightest thing I’ve ever done, especially since playing around with my food plan had made me feel wobbly. I mean, talk about dangling myself right in front of temptation…? And I already knew at the weekend that my crazy work schedule and the revision I had to do for my exam meant I’d hardly be working out this week, so if ever there was a week where protein balls weren’t fucking needed in the first place it was this week. And yet, out came the blender.

I am such a dick sometimes.

Anyway, it is what it is. I’m hoping that this obscene number is an aberration, and when I reboot both my weigh day and my food plan on Sunday things might look a little brighter. At the very least I’ll have time to kick the Shitbird scale around every tile in the bathroom until it gives me something I can live with. For now, I remain pissed off to the max. The experiment is over, and I’m going back to my steady-away poodle down the numbers.

Bah 🙁

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All Bent Outta Shape

In the here & now, ,

It occurred to me on the way home from work yesterday that I didn’t have much food in the house. Or, to put it another way there wasn’t  much food in that I could actually eat, which isn’t necessarily one and the same thing. It was day two of my new year, and I needed to head off the can’t be arsed to cook so I’ll just eat [insert highly unsuitable foodstuff HERE] situation that I knew was brewing.

I was on a roll…porridge for breakfast, salad and couscous at lunchtime, and a blank canvas for supper. Oh, and absolutely no junk, which hadn’t exactly filled me with joy as I’d gone through my day. Walking down the corridor at work yesterday with my afternoon cuppa I would have sold my granny for something sweet to go with it, you know?

I’ve got to re-break all those habits that I’ve slipped back into, and it’s a bit like starting from scratch. There’s always food in the office and really, come on surely one cake bar can’t hurt if I count the points? Except it’s hard to have just one, they’re gone in a heartbeat after all and anyway how is it even possible that something you can eat in under half a minute can contain a quarter of your daily points? In spite of all that, just recently I seem to have had difficulty forming the word no.

To be fair, it was a bit easier to say no yesterday, because I’d had an email from God of Pain first thing in the morning inviting me to a post-Christmas weigh-in with the intention of helping me to review my goals…cue bowels turning to liquid. The thoughts galloped through my head like a fucking freight train. Oh my GOD he’s really going to freak out on my ass, I’ve gained another seven pounds since my last bollocking and now I’m going to get his disappointed face which is even worse than his pissed off face…

Actually he’s pretty understanding about the bingeing – he knows a food addict when he sees one. But there are limits and I don’t want to start pushing his buttons. So I ‘fessed up in my return email. I figured it was better to manage his expectations and give him time to wrap his brain around the fact that I’ve packed six months’ worth of dodgy food choices into the ten day holiday window, and I’m now carrying the results around in my pants.

So, as I hit the supermarket last night off the back of my second clean day, I was doing okay. Right up until I clocked all the reduced holiday food. As I poked around in the meat section looking for chicken, my eyes were drawn to all the yellow stickers which were practically screaming BUY ME!! Mini venison pies with buttery shortcrust pastry, reduced to pennies. Filo pastry parcels bursting with goats cheese and onion marmalade, reduced to pennies. Christmas selection boxes with all manner of goodies inside, reduced to fucking pennies. And I couldn’t buy any of it.

As I stomped back to the car clutching my chicken and vegetables I felt like howling with rage that I’d had to pass on a mountain of fat-girl-wet-dream food. It wasn’t fair, in fact at that moment life felt very unfair and I narrowly avoided having a full on diva strop right there in the car park as I raged about the fact that I was a) fat and b) on a diet.

I’ve still got a face on about it to be honest. It’s hard. Being good sucks. I went to bed last night and dreamed about mini venison pies. That said, I survived day two…and there are no points in mini venison pies if all you do is dream about them, right?

Come on day three, let’s see what you’ve got.

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