“I’ve been dieting all
morning. Am I skinny yet?” and “I’d give up chocolate but I’m no quitter. “ I’ve seen these on fridge magnets every now
and again and they used to make me smile. Used to, because I was smug back then. Thought I was gorgeous. Reckoned I had it all in the bag. Got a grip on myself, started losing some
weight and doing a bit of running. Great
stuff altogether. Thought I was the bee’s
knees. I hit a wall on occasion, who
doesn’t, but I cheered myself up by saying ah well, it’s only half a pound, or
at least I didn’t gain anything this week.
I still had a good 9 or 10 pounds to lose to reach my target weight of
ten and a half stone but I was confident I’d get there quickly enough. Then I
hit another wall. A big, fek off, you’re
not getting over me, red bricked one. At
least that’s what it looks like in my imagination. It even has menacing barbed wire and broken
beer bottles cemented into the top of it.
You know the one I mean.
Bastard thing. Well, I’m going to
be the wrecking ball for that bastard wall.
If it kills me, I will. I am
going to start knocking it down brick by damned brick and if you want to join
me, you are more than welcome. In fact,
this can be our own little Christmas Fat Club.
Yes, I mentioned the C word. (Only 143 days away. If you’re counting.) Christmas is going to be
my deadline. I am going to be a half
stone down for the Silly Season and in order to do that I am going to name and
shame each and every half pound I gain between now and then. I have put up four whole pounds over the past
month, averaging half a pound a week and I would reckon maybe a pound on
holidays. I carefully log each and every
Thursday on my wall calendar, what I have lost or gained. I have been doing it for the past 13 months
now, even Mister Husband checks the calendar when he comes home on those
evenings. See, I got lazy. I got complacent. I got greedy and I got cocky. Once upon a time I had such will power. I was driven and super strict with
myself. I was also bordering on having
an eating disorder which is no good. No
good at all! It was November and I was
getting married the following summer so I went on a makey-uppy Wedding
Diet. By which, I cut out carbs, lived
on a bowl of All Bran, lettuce, fruit, a yogurt and half an egg sandwich a
day. For seven months. The weight fell off me and my breath
stank. I have no idea what I weighed at
the time as I tend to go by my clothes but I got down to a size 8-10 through
starving myself and doing a minimum of a 40 minute workout at least 5 nights a
week. I also developed a head that
looked slightly too large for my body.
My one treat for the week consisted of a Butler’s cappuccino and
croissant on my way into work on Friday mornings. Madness.
But I felt great. I admit
it. I never had as much energy in my
life. I literally woke up in the morning
and jumped out of bed. I credit this to
the total abolition of junk food. White
unrefined sugar in any shape or form is a mood and energy sapper. No joke.
I still think back with fondness of the good form I was in all the while
I was on this, there is no other word for it, starvation diet. But it did my mind good. At least I got to see first-hand the link
between crap food and depression. I
digress. I also, and I have to put this
in here because it is my little carrot on the end of the stick, had killer abs
thanks to all the stomach crunches and sit ups I did of an evening. When I sit down now, I get that little (ok,
ok, massive!) roll of, again no other
word for it, fat, spilling out over
the top of my trousers. I didn’t used
to have that. I also didn’t appreciate
what I did have. I was too scared of putting more than a
tablespoon of dressing on my iceberg lettuce and making sure I never had more
than one digestive biscuit with my nightly cup of tea. Anyway, ten years and four back to back
pregnancies later, I’m finding I need another kick up the colossal arse. The first hurdle was when Screecher Creature
No. 4 decided to wean so that meant running was put on the back burner for a
while. A week would have done it but no,
I took a three week and three day sabbatical.
Treated myself, like. I used up
all the old excuses; it’s raining, I can’t go out in that. (I actually like running in the rain.) Mister Husband is working late and I can’t go
out at 8pm, it’s too late. (Maybe, but
it doesn’t get dark till 10pm. Loads of
time.) And the other great all-rounder;
ah, I’ll do it tomorrow/at lunch time/run twice over the weekend. (We all know
tomorrow never comes.) Came back from
the holidays feeling wonderful and decided to get back into the swing of things
and actually went out for a short run that very evening. Good woman!
Start as you mean to go on. I
aimed for 4 runs a week. No bother to
me. Sure in the early days I was walking
7 nights a week and then when the pace quickened, I managed 3 to 4 runs,
easily. I did manage four runs that week.
And one run the next. Autumn was
upon us this week and even if the calendar didn’t scream that at me, my body
did. Myself and the winter have always
bitch slapped each other. He’d (coz it’s
always a he) piss me off by getting darker earlier in the evenings and raining
all the time and I’d get into a bit of a state and mope and moan and literally
live for Christmas because then Spring is just around the corner. I found myself being forced out the door on
Wednesday night, August 1st, by a very big workman’s boot firmly placed
against the cheeks of my arse. There
were threats of “if you don’t go, I will,” bandied about. It was a disaster. I walked my route. I didn’t have the physical or mental
wherewithal to run it. When I was more
than half way round my inner bitch piped up, “go on. Run the rest of the way. It won’t kill
ya!” But it nearly did. I hauled myself, huffing and puffing a
pathetic one hundred metres up the road and I had to stop. Every part of me felt like lead. A mere three months ago I was hitting 7k,
delighted with myself, getting closer and closer to the 10k diamond in the
sky. See? What did I say earlier on,
something about being smug? Thinking I
was gorgeous and that I had it all in the bag.
Pride comes before a fall. Let me
be clear. For me, I want to feel better
and of course, look better, in my clothes.
It is a lovely, added bonus to hop up on a scales once a week and
discover that I am a half pound closer to my target weight of ten and a half
stone. But that was a whole month
ago. Yesterday, the scales gleefully
told me I have gained a full four pounds in a month. Gaining on average, half a pound a week. Again the excuses were brought out and
paraded in front of me; I was on holidays.
I’m retaining water; I always am at this time of the month. I need my chocolate. It was only a little wine. (This one was said very quietly and very
sheepishly indeed.) But there’s no getting away from it. Time to face up to it all. I need to get back on track and quick. So who’s with me? I am prepared to put up here, each and every
Friday night until the 7th of December 2012, my hopeful reversing of
gaining half a pound a week. In fact, if
I manage it, I will have reached my target of ten and a half stone. This is still a full stone heavier than I was
when I conceived our first and second boys and a full, crazy two stone heavier when I was at my lightest, ten years
ago. I managed to get back to my
pre-pregnancy weight after the first two boys, but not pre pregnancy
shape. I’m realistic about these things;
my body ain’t ever going to look the same again. I am proud of the shape I have now. My boys came from this body. But it’s still hidden under a good eight
pounds of padding. Time to bring it
out. I would love to be of some support
and inspiration to anyone else battling the bulge, but without making a big
deal out of it. No competition, no
pressure, just a bit of fun. I’ll be
deadly serious though, is that ok? See,
I need to name and shame those pounds in order for this to work for me. I am
wine free writing this. There is no Dutch
courage. I am laying my soul bare.
Stats: June 2011 –
thirteen stone four and a half pounds
September 2011 – twelve stone and eight pounds
December 2011- eleven stone and eleven pounds
March 2012 – ten stone and thirteen pounds
August 2012 - eleven stone three and a half pounds
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