So. If you read the blog last Sunday you might remember that I had a bit of a meltdown when the bitch in the bathroom delivered the less than welcome news that over the preceding week I had somehow picked up an unwelcome guest, in the shape of one whole pound of lard.
I held my hands up and ‘fessed all. I hadn’t cheated on the diet as such but I’d definitely taken my eye off the ball. Counting points had sort of morphed into guessing and I’d become a little too complacent to convince anyone that I was serious about shedding once and for all this additional arse that I’ve been carrying around for most of my life. I swear down I’ve never been more serious about anything, ever. Upping of game was clearly required.
And I have. This week has been totally different. I’ve stepped up to the plate, walked more, exercised more and I have been scrupulous in terms of point counting and clean eating. I’ve been textbook, right? So you’d expect that to show up on the scales, just like I did. As I went about my morning routine I was confident. Some might even say cocky.
After brushing my teeth I threw a contemptuous glance towards the bitch, sitting just to the left of my washbasin, a glance that was intended to convey that her ass was mine, once I’d dried my hair, you know just in case the fact that my hair was wet made it weigh heavy. See, I had it all going on, I know how these things work.
I walked around the bedroom like Rocky strutting around the boxing ring, I mean I was da man. And when I was ready I sauntered back into the bathroom and stood on the scale only to find that there had been absolutely zero fucking downwards movement since last Sunday. That pound appears to have welded itself to my arse like some kind of lardy asylum-seeker, clearly hoping that the past philosophy of all additional pounds being accepted as the norm and going largely unnoticed was still in play.
So now, we’re at something of a stand-off. I mean, I tried all the usual things like moving the scale around the bathroom, standing on one leg, holding onto the sink so I weighed lighter at first and letting go slowly just in case you know, it needed time to adjust in order to be accurate. Nothing. The extra pound climbed aboard the damned thing every time I did.
Now, we all know what would have happened in the past, right? Proceed directly to the fridge, do not pass GO, do not collect £200…you know the score. Plus, let me tell you that since buying my new phone yesterday I’ve spent in total about five hours on either phone support or text chat support with the incredibly patient clever people at Apple.
For whatever reason, every single operating system within the four walls of my house has seemingly needed to be rebooted or updated with different software before anything would recognise my new phone, and now finally old phone, new phone and MacBook are all working but still not talking to each other so the nightmare continues and will probably swallow up my entire Sunday. Knowing all that, and knowing me as you do, with my lack of patience and technical muppetry, you’ll realise that I’m a woman on the edge.
(For dramatic purposes please feel free to ‘hear’ that last paragraph in a voice going up in both pitch and volume, coming from a body dressed in mismatched pyjamas and one slipper because I got dressed without concentrating whilst talking to said tech support and the dog’s slipper fetish has struck again.)
Nine salted almonds and two muesli bars were consumed with a cup of tea during the course of my morning just to ease the pressure. I’m ten smart points into my day and now before I go pick up my mum I have to call the nice man back who said clicking that button and waiting for shit to download would fix the problem, only it didn’t.
Anyway. The pound lives to fight another day but it’s not going to win. The battle lines are drawn and me and the bitch in the bathroom will reconvene next Sunday. I have a lump hammer on standby just in case things turn ugly.
Have a good week y’all 🙂
