Monthly Archives: January 2016

Stepping Out Of The Shadows

In the here & now

mask

I’m not quite sure what I thought would happen when I went public with the blog. I mean, I knew that there wasn’t going to be paparazzi camped on my doorstep when I threw my front door open the next day, but up until voting for the UK Blog Awards went live I’d pretty much been writing this in secret. Oh, you know, I’d shared a few of the posts on Facebook as you do, but I never actually spelled out that the blog was written by yours truly.

Overnight I turned into a loud and proud shameless hussy as I claimed the blog as my own and lobbied for votes. I was genuinely overwhelmed by the reaction, I had some awesome messages of support and for a couple of hours it was all very exciting, until everyone’s news feeds filled up with other stuff and the moment had passed.

Telling my friends that that the skinny girl trying to break out was the one who was zipped inside my fat suit was massive. Well, let me qualify that; for me, it was massive. Not because I was putting myself out there as a wannabe writer, but because I was coming right out and admitting I was fat. Like they hadn’t noticed, right?

Thing is, some of them wouldn’t have known that. The last time I actually saw some of the people I’m in touch with on Facebook for example, I was doing my very best impression of being a skinny string bean. They’d remember me as the one who lost all that weight, who looked amazing and did so well. The one who gracefully accepted all their compliments and swore she’d never put the weight back on again…yeah look how well that worked out.

That’s the thing with being a yo-yo dieter. Leaving your house and hanging out in places where you might bump into folk you know is terrific when you’re on your way down the scale…you want to be seen, by every man and his dog. You want people to go home and say OMG you’ll never guess who I bumped into, she looked amazing!

On your way up the scale, you judge the outing to be a success only if you’ve managed to avoid seeing anyone you know, because if you do, you die a little bit on the inside as you smile and say hello, all the while mentally calculating exactly how much weight you’ve piled on since the last time you saw them. It’s excruciating. And we all know that ‘you look well’ is a euphemism for fuck me who ate all the pies!

Most horrifying of all is the prospect of bumping into an ex…I’ve lived the last seven years in fear of bumping into Mr Muscle, which is ridiculous. Why should I give a monkey’s chuff what he thinks, with his perfect pecs and his disdain for fatties. I do though, even now…if I saw him I’d want to die on the spot.

So, stepping out of the shadows, fat suit exposed in all it’s glory was a big step. Since the day I started back on the path to Mooseville, I’ve been very careful not to allow any pictures of the fat me, anywhere. I used to pepper my Facebook posts with photos, but not in recent times…heaven forbid someone might realise I’m not living that carefree skinny life.  I don’t know why I worried – it turns out people were interested, supportive but it hardly rocked their world.

I’ve got a foot in both camps as of right now…sort of like show and tell, without the show. The cat’s out of the bag, I’ve ‘fessed up and told the world I’m wearing the fat suit, and I’m okay with that because we all know it’s temporary, right? I’m headed for Skinny Town and I’m not looking back. But lets just agree to keep the cameras locked away for now…one step at a time 🙂

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When The Fanfare Stops

Freeform thoughts

fanfary-13

Hand on heart, I can honestly say that one of the most satisfying things in the world for me where our blog is concerned, is when I get a thought on one of the posts or a message from someone who’s using the stuff we chatter about to help them work through their own demons. I’ve struggled with yo-yo dieting for so many years, but since I started writing my thoughts down and working through them with you lot I’ve had more light bulb moments than I can count, and it’s awesome to know that you guys pick up on stuff that can help you too.

So, you can blame our very own Fleury Knox for this one…Fleury once mentioned she was a dab hand at patchwork, and she’s been busy stitching together some of the themes across a handful of different posts. In doing so, I think she’s unlocked another bit of the enigma. Probably one of the more important ones too, at least for me. I’ve talked a lot about sliding up and down the scale in a continual loop, but Fleury sent me an email this week which pretty much stopped me in my tracks.

There were a lot of nuggets in there to be fair, but the one that resonated the most with me was around what happens when you actually get to Skinny Town. Take me for example. Once my head’s in the right place and I’ve got the bit between my teeth, I can lose weight. I’m there now, doing it, and I’m grateful…a long way to go yet, probably at least another 12 months but I’m motoring.

It’s a buzz, you know? People are starting to notice. I’m starting to be able to wear different clothes, and I no longer feel like my chins are trying to swallow my head when I lay down. The fact that I can walk more, and wrestle on a daily basis with the cross-trainer even with my still super-sized arse makes my blood pump harder and my adrenaline flow…it’s exciting. The compliments, the encouragement, and the attention is exhilarating, even more so if I remember rightly as you near the finish line and you start to flirt with your elusive goal weight.

But what about when you’ve settled into Skinny Town, and the fanfare dies down. What then? When the reality sinks in that if you want to stay there, you’ve got to dine on dust for the rest of your life, otherwise your muffin top will gradually re-emerge from the top of your pants and you’ll have a one way ticket back to square one. I’ve been there. Many times. People stop noticing, or commenting…your achievement is still monumental, but it’s so yesterday…the world has moved on.

Fleury said “My only insight as a teen at Weight Watchers meetings was that we were there in the cheap seats, the fat people; somewhere beyond, outside of that purgatory were the Elect. Referred to mysteriously as Maintenance.”  I’ve got to tell you that made me laugh out loud, because I’ve been there too, watching those skinny string beans who get more points than you sashay around the meetings in their kitten heels, with their collar bones on show and looking for all the world like the cat that got the cream skimmed milk 🙂

I’ve been at goal weight for ten minutes, a couple of times in my life but with the exception of one time where a crush on Mr Muscle kept me skinny for almost a year, I’ve never been allowed near the maintenance corner because as soon as I hit goal, the diet is toast.

One thing I know to be true, is that it takes your head longer to get used to Skinny Town than your body, which in my experience is only too happy to jump headlong into new clothes and start snapping selfies 24/7. So, for all of you who read the blog who’ve already arrived and happen to be waiting for the rest of us in Skinny Town, firstly congratulations on getting there, you look virtually amazing…but what’s your plan?

What’s your plan to help you stay there? As Fleury points out, we’re all going to need one…for me it’s a way away yet, but hey this time I’m not going to be caught with my pants down, right?

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A Minor Detail

In the here & now

frock

Thanks for all your lovely messages, today I’m feeling much better thank you…today it’s just my brain that hurts after a particularly taxing day with work stuff but then that’s not that unusual!

So earlier on I was admiring a dress that my friend from work is thinking of buying – she’s crazy about dresses in the same way I’m crazy about handbags –  the picture of it was lovely. It’s a style and cut that would really suit her, and the sort of colour she wears so it ticked every box. Well, all except the one minor detail, where it wasn’t actually available in her size. Worse than that in fact, it wasn’t made in her size at all. It only went up to two dress sizes smaller than she needs.

I think it’s going to turn into a ‘one day’ purchase…hands up who else does that? I’ve had to put my hands down again so I can type, but if I had a pound for every time I’ve bought something two sizes too small because it would fit me soon, I could retire to the Bahamas. My wardrobe is full of such outfits. Some of them are now out of fashion, and some of them are uber trendy, but only because they’ve gone out of fashion and hung around so long they’re now back in again without ever having made it out of the wardrobe.

My friend is trying to lose weight so it might just work as an incentive and you know what, it’s fine to have one or maybe two outfits like that…me, I could open a shop.

Did a skinny string bean ever say right, so I’m a size eight but that dress is only available in a size six so I’m going to buy it and then diet till it fits me? I highly doubt it. Or, I’m an eight but that dress I want is only available in a twelve, so bring on the hobnobs? Of course not.

It’s fat girl thinking in it’s purest form. I’ve even branched out to shoes and more especially boots. A couple of years ago whilst I was on holiday with my friend, I bought a pair of thigh boots in zebra print with 4 inch heels. We ladies of a certain age love animal prints don’t you know, and they were – still are – very very foxy.

However. On a 300lb body..? I don’t think so do you? I’ve taken them out of their box numerous times just to admire them, but in my head they were a ‘one day’ purchase, aka I might be able to wear them one day, on all those nights out in Skinny Town. I’m still struggling to imagine what kind of occasion would warrant the thigh high zebra boots look, but hey you never know, right? Better to have a pair just in case.

Sadly, the number in front of my age has gone up a notch since that particular purchase and so by the time I’m the right shape to wear them I’ll probably have passed that brief window of opportunity.

Or will I…?

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Reason v Excuse

Biggest struggles

ouch

So it occurred to me as I was dragging my knackered old body around the office this morning that I may just have overdone it a bit yesterday. I know people tell you to listen to your body, but to be fair, when you’ve got an Asshole voice that lives inside your head and has a PhD in giving you a bum steer, sometimes that’s not as easy as it sounds.

Yesterday was a tough day in a lot of respects, I was supporting someone important to me through a crap situation and as well as being emotionally quite draining there was a lot of sitting about, on chairs which probably weren’t designed with comfort as their primary consideration. So when I finally got home at the end of the day I was tired, and my back was really sore. I’d eaten barely anything all day and my energy was low.

All I wanted to do was to collapse in the armchair, have something to eat and go to bed, but I hit the override button on every reason why that was the right thing to do by insisting to myself that despite my crappy day, I still had to put in three miles of walking before I could allow myself to relax. Cut myself some slack? No chance.

Off I went. Pitch black outside, and raining but whatever…no excuses, I’m on a schedule. There’s a mountain in Cuba with my name all over it, and I’m on one…got to get fit. No slacking allowed. By the time I got back, my back was screaming at me, my dodgy knee was making it’s presence felt and I had a banging headache to boot. Even the dog looked pissed off, since all he wanted to do was curl up on my knee and have his tummy tickled.

So, I ate supper and went directly to bed afterwards, right? No of course I didn’t…I said I would do ten minutes on the hurt machine every morning and every night. Cut myself some slack? No, and don’t ask again…we don’t accept excuses any more, that’s the old Dee. I finally went to sleep feeling sore but hardcore, you know? And not a little bit smug…look at me, bringing it home even after the day I’ve had.

So this morning, walking was painful. Crossing the office was painful. Getting out of my chair was painful. The ten minutes I spent on the cross-trainer this morning passed by in a blur of ouches, and the two miles walk down to the shop and back that I’d planned at lunchtime to try and incorporate some exercise into my day looked more unappealing than I can tell you. But I did it anyway, because I’m on a schedule.

I loped into the house tonight like someone who’d just graduated from the ministry of silly walks. I can’t place my left foot down too hard on the floor because the gremlin in my knee with the razor blade stabs me if I do. I can’t fully stand up straight because my back’s too sore, and if I lift my right leg too high, I squeal.

The thought occurred to me as I was getting out of the car that I was a mile short of my daily walking target and I should do a quick march up the hill and back to make up the deficit…finally, and not before time, the voice of reason stepped in. And I now get it.

There’s a difference between an excuse and a reason. Pushing yourself through a stiff muscle and building on established momentum is fine. Being too bull-headed to flex the schedule because you’re afraid saying no makes you a slacker is not fine.

Tonight I’m going to cut myself some slack…I’m not walking the extra mile. I didn’t miss it out, I just didn’t do it yet. I’ll tack it onto a day where not everything hurts, and perhaps tomorrow I won’t be walking like a weirdo. I’m learning as I go along, and today I learned to listen to a different voice…they don’t all give Asshole advice.

Can’t slack for long though…today I got the confirmation I’ve been hoping for – I’m on the trek…I’m going to Cuba…WHOOP WHOOP!!!!

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The Take Care Wallpaper

Freeform thoughts

flower

So I’ve just been getting all my stuff together ready to go back to work tomorrow, and whilst I’m excited to see everyone and throw myself headlong back into the madness, there’s a part of me that’s secretly gutted to be climbing back onto the hamster wheel. It’s been amazing to have some down-time at home with only myself to please. I’ve become very good at making it all about me.

Hands up who hears the words take care a hundred times a day..? I do, and actually I use them a lot too. When I’m ending a phone call, or saying goodbye to someone, they tend to pop out of my mouth in a have a nice day kind of way. Nobody’s ever called me on it you know? Take care of what?  Well, er…yourself. In what way..? Um…don’t fall down a hole..? I dunno.

It’s wallpaper, right? An expression used so often that we hardly notice it, and we certainly don’t think of it as advice. It just doesn’t land in that way…shame really, because as advice goes, it’s pretty solid.

I was doing fine before my time off…my food plan was working, I was happy making good choices and felt really bedded in to this journey. Focusing on myself this week though has definitely made me feel like I’ve kicked it up a notch you know? I’ve raised the bar on what good looks like, and I’ve been taking care of me. I wonder what that looks like though once I’m back in my real life, where I’m more limited in the amount of time I have to focus on myself.

So I’m usually at least nine hours in the office each day with a one hour commute either side – that keeps the wolf from the door, and pays the bills. I usually need around six or seven hours sleep at night and then there’s family stuff, friends stuff, house stuff, blog stuff…well. If the Asshole voice could be bothered he’d bang the no time for exercise drum, but he seems to be relatively mute at the moment.

Let’s just wait and see…not finding time isn’t really an option given my pending appointment with the mountain, so for the first time in my life I’m turning my back on the excuse, not the hard yards…who’d have thought it mm? Seriously, I don’t know how I’m going to fit it all, but I will. On the upside I’m not going to have time to fantasise about hob-nobs 🙂

I always said when I hit fifty I’d consider that I’d earned the stripes which allowed me to do what the chuff I wanted, when I wanted and in the way I wanted. Somehow, in my head I always envisaged that would play out by me taking a nosedive into eccentricity and withdrawing the shit I once gave about sensible stuff. Had you told me I’d be favouring healthy eating and exercise I’d have written you off as a nutter, and if you’d so much as hinted at the possibility of me trekking over mountains in some exotic land I’d have signed your funny farm papers personally.

Strange how stuff turns out isn’t it?

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