Tag Archives: blogging

I’d Rather Be Dodgy…

dodgy

It’s weird you know, I’m fifty years old and I’d like to think I’ve learned a few valuable life lessons along the way. I’m still learning, in fact this journey in particular over the last few months has peeled away a lot of layers and revealed things about me to myself that I don’t think I ever knew. If someone had told me at the very start of this journey that that would happen it might have spooked me a bit, I mean it could have had disaster written all over it, right? We all know about Pandora’s box.

Happily, as I’ve uncovered stuff, talking it through with you lot has helped me to work through it, in fact it’s been like six hundred words of therapy every day. I’m more grateful than I can tell you for the fact that you all listen to whatever comes out of my head, and then empathise, and relate, and chip in with your own perspective.

I must admit, I’m totally unguarded on here, and I’m sure occasionally I’ve been guilty of over-sharing, but I’d hope my words come across to you as authentic. It’s my journey, as seen through my own eyes, and whilst I might crack a joke or two, those of you who’ve sussed me out will understand that’s my default way of dealing with difficult, you know?

So I had an email yesterday morning from one of my most loyal supporters who was absolutely outraged that someone had awarded a ‘poor’ rating to something I wrote a couple of days ago. And bless her, she even felt the need to apologise on their behalf. I was so touched at the way she had my back, but to be honest until she pointed it out, I hadn’t actually noticed.

See, I don’t think too much about the star ratings widget…it’s useful in the way it allows me to see which posts you enjoy the most, and I love that it generates a favourite posts list – new folk who wander into the blog tend to poke around in there, and it gives them a good flavour of what we’re all about. I’ve never really thought about it in the context of people passing judgement on my writing, daft as that might sound.

I’ve got to be honest, I didn’t like the fact that someone thought my words weren’t up to scratch, but I wasn’t especially worried about it. And this little storm in a teacup demonstrated perfectly to me just how far I’ve grown in the last few months. At one time I would’ve been absolutely gutted.

I would have read, and re-read the post, trying to pinpoint the exact bit which sent someone’s opinion of me plummeting downwards. I would’ve chewed myself up about it and then probably headed straight to the Hobnobs. I wasn’t good enough, look it’s there in black and white, I’m officially rubbish. POOR!! I need a hobnob immediately to make me feel better.

This time, I re-read it once and thought you know what, it’s probably not the most entertaining post I’ve written but actually, it helped me. And let’s not forget, I write for me. Writing my thoughts down on that day in the way that I did helped me to find a link. And the links I’ve gathered over the past ten or so months are the reason I’m still here, sashaying along on this road to Skinny Town.

So I’m happy with those words even if they weren’t to someone else’s taste…they served me well. They had a purpose. And if I tried to be funny when I wasn’t feeling funny, that’s when I stop being authentic, right?

I don’t much fancy getting another ‘poor’ though. Ever. So I changed the descriptions, ‘cos I can do that. ‘Poor’ is now a bit dodgy, and ‘awful’ is now a steaming pile of shite. I sincerely hope nobody ever thinks that, but at least if they do it’ll make me chuckle, and I’d rather be dodgy than poor any day of the week..!

Have a great weekend everyone…see you on the other side 🙂

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Doing My Typical Thing

trainers

I found myself shopping on line last night for new trainers in anticipation of this new exercise-filled life I’m going to be living. That’s so typical of me, I mean at that point I hadn’t even spoken to the bloke, you know? I had no idea what kind of footwear I might need, because it’s a fitness studio not a gym, and in any event I’m hardly lacking in the trainers department, given that I bought a new pair back in January in honour of the hurt machine moving in.

Turns out that me and the hurt machine get on better when I’m barefoot so I don’t even use them for that. To be fair I have worn them a lot…mainly for dog walking. They’ve lost that just out of the box look, but they’re not exactly battered, in fact I would imagine that Nike designed them to withstand far more rigorous activity than they’ve ever seen on my feet.

I suspect my need to accessorise is driven by the fact that somewhere in my head lurks the conviction that if I look the part, I’ll be able to pull it off, in a sort of fake it till you make it kind of way. I’ve always been the same. I remember once in my later teenage years having the hots for a bloke who I knew was really into playing squash, so I tried to pretend I was too. I even bought a squash racquet so it could lean casually in the hallway when he popped round for a coffee.

My ruse worked, right up to the point where I ran out of excuses not to join him in a game, which unsurprisingly didn’t go well. He more or less stayed in the same spot on the squash court for a full hour whilst my chunky legs made a heroic effort to propel me around, chasing a ball I was never going to catch…by the end of the session I couldn’t even speak, in fact I was on the verge of needing an iron lung. It wasn’t the biggest surprise in the world when I never heard from him again. But despite the epic failure, throughout the nightmare I dripped Slazenger from head to toe.

I’m not quite sure what a fitness studio does if I’m honest..? I just know this bloke comes highly recommended as a trainer. Let’s not forget I’m a child of the eighties, so I’m seriously having to put the brakes on and stop myself running out to buy a headband and legwarmers which in my head is what everyone will be wearing. I’ve got my feet sorted out but I’m feeling slightly nervous that I’ll stick out like a sore thumb because I don’t have the right uniform.

Logic tells me it shouldn’t matter a monkey’s chuff what I’m wearing, as long as it covers the flesh and holds in a bit of the wobble. But then, if my life was remotely governed by logic I wouldn’t have gotten myself into this pickle in the first place, would I..?

So, I’m going for my assessment tonight, and tomorrow it starts. And you know how I’ve struggled with the thought of fitting everything in..? My weekend away with its enforced technology withdrawal demonstrated perfectly that it’s not all going to turn to ratshit if I don’t post every single day.

I’m going to force myself to cut back a bit and post four times a week, instead of daily…that’s going to feel very weird especially at first. But freeing up time to get serious about my fitness supports my longer term goal and I’ve got to be honest with myself… it’s the only way I can juggle all the things I need to do.

I’m thinking I’ll try and post on Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays and Fridays. Seems to make sense,  the blog is quieter over the weekend anyway. I hope that works for you guys.

You won’t all desert me, will you?

Promise..?

I can’t do this without ya 🙂

 

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All Toes Present And Correct

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So, as we head north on the train home, I’m feeling a tiny bit flat that all the excitement is over you know? I’d only been blogging for about four months when entries were invited for these awards, so for roughly half my blogging life this has been running in the background.

I’m sorry I didn’t bring it home for you guys…I would have loved to of course, but the winners were so talented and they deserve every bit of the recognition they got last night. My friend asked me earlier if I was disappointed, and you know what, I found it really hard to answer. I am, but at the same time I’m really not.

Judging by some of the outraged emails I’ve had from you lot, I think you’re definitely more fed up than I am, in fact if the judges have any sense they’ll find a safe house and stay there for a bit!

Awards are lovely, and being a part of all this has been awesome but I’ve never lost sight of the fact that I started this for me. I started writing as a way to keep my hands busy and wrestle my head into the sweet spot so I could unzip this fat suit once and for all, and no matter how much I joke about stuff, I make sure that every post helps me to move my head on to a better place. Your lovely company, and your feedback and your chatter has become a priceless part of my journey. And it’s workingso please don’t be too down that I don’t have a trophy to polish…I have everything I need right here 😊

It was a great evening, and in spite of my strappy not-built-for-fat-feet shoes I’m happy to report that all my toes are present and correct, if a little pissed off. Nothing that a couple of days in Uggs won’t sort out, right..?  And I must thank you all for your lovely compliments when I shared the pictures on Facebook…you made me feel like a million dollars, and my boy seems to have gained a new fan club too, much to his bemusement.

Between yesterday’s sightseeing and a bit of shopping we’ve walked for miles, as if last night’s shenanigans weren’t enough for these poor old feet. But I’ve kept a watching brief on my diet, and I’ve earned the little treats that might have accidentally found their way through my chops…it’s all about balance, right? Mind you, the cooked breakfast in the hotel this morning was served on a plate the size of a saucer, so the string bean Gods were clearly cheering me on from the sidelines.

Life returns to normal tomorrow…it’s a bright shiny new Weight Watchers week and I can’t wait to get at it. Thanks so much for your immense support over the last couple of weeks, and for getting giddy right alongside me. I got goosebumps last night when I saw our blog in the spotlight, and I’m just immensely proud of what we’ve built.

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Oh, and in case you’re wondering…yes the man on stilts was resting his nickie nackie nooos on my shoulder. If you look closely you’ll see a touch of hysteria behind my smile 😳

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A Wise Man Once Said…

believe

…whether you think you can, or think you can’t, you’re right.

I think we have Henry Ford to thank for that nugget of wisdom, and it’s one of my favourite ever quotes. I admire its simplicity, and yet it’s really clever. And there’s no doubt about it, the level of self-belief that you carry in your head is 100% responsible for your ability to keep both feet planted squarely in the middle of the dieting sweet spot. Or not.

Isn’t it funny, I don’t remember anything remarkable about the day this all began. I mean obviously I knew that the time was right – it was the first Monday after my holiday. Time for the post-holiday diet. And I suspect because the holiday had been both awesome and agonising in equal measure due to the fact that I weighed as much as a moose, I felt a tiny bit more determined than I had on other Mondays which had come and gone whilst my arse continued to party.

And it somehow felt a bit different. From day one, there was a conviction which came out of nowhere and said to me this time is IT, although I couldn’t immediately put my finger on why this time was going to be different to any of the other times. Starting a diet wasn’t an unknown concept to me if you remember, and to be fair all of them started with 100% commitment. Trouble is, they usually managed to limp across the line of Thursday at best, and by Friday I was usually promising myself faithfully that I’d start again on Monday which meant a power-eating free-for-all over the weekend.

It’s like my commitment bucket had holes in the bottom you know? And I recognised that. I knew that no matter how many hopes and dreams or how much determination I poured into the top, my resolve had a habit of disappearing out of the bottom like sand through my fingers before I’d even got going. I realised that I needed to find a way to patch the holes up. And then you lot happened.

By some miracle I made it to the Saturday. I don’t remember many conversations with the Asshole voice in that first week, it’s like I got a head start, you know? Maybe someone was rooting for me…who knows. But on the Saturday…well, that’s when I started writing. And a little while after that, you started writing back to me, and we’ve been talking ever since.

It’s a beautiful thing. Whenever I’ve had wobbles, you’ve propped me up. When you’ve had wobbles you’ve dipped in and pulled out whatever you need from the posts or the wise old owls who hang out in here. Writing all my thoughts down shines a light on the holes in my bucket, and between us all we’re busy patching them up.

When I started, I thought I could do this. I still think I can. And I’m right 🙂

 

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Eating Humble Pie

pie 2

So, one of the drawbacks of coming from good old Yorkshire stock is the tendency to forget that not everyone is as comfortable with plain talk as I am. I mean, if you’re a regular reader you’ll be used to me getting straight to the point of what’s on my mind, with an occasional bit of salty language here and there. I don’t see an issue with that, because that’s me, you know? It’s what comes out of my head, in the same way it would come out of my mouth if you were standing in front of me.

I guess sometimes in my haste to drive home a point I can forget to apply my is this going to offend anyone? filter, and judging by the furious response I got from someone on an email last night at least one blooper got through the net yesterday…whoops.

Now, having exchanged lots and lots of emails with you lot over the last eight months or so, I know that collectively you have a terrific sense of humour. I know we laugh at the same things, despair over the same things and, well we just get each other, right? We’ve walked the requisite mile in each other’s’ shoes, and we’re all eminently qualified to understand and express a view on the general topic of being fat.

It was pointed out in no uncertain terms that there may be a small number of folk amongst the posse who would prefer not to be referred to as fat old ladies with bingo wings. Being a fat old lady with bingo wings myself, I didn’t give it a second thought, but I had a proper bollocking – that’s Yorkshire speak for telling off in case it doesn’t translate – from someone I’d managed to offend with my sweeping generalisation that only fat girls and old ladies wear shrugs…

Now, half of me wants to defend my position (really, have you EVER seen a skinny string bean with toned arms cover up their top half with a shrug unless it’s like an Antarctic event?) but mostly I’m full of remorse that my words might have stung a bit. Not my intention, I promise and I’m genuinely sorry if I hurt your feelings. Me and my big mouth, right?!

That said, I also had a handful of really lovely notes from folk who wanted to encourage me to be proud of who I am, you know, comfortable in my own skin so I could feel like a million dollars despite my arse looking like boulders in a bag. I love the sentiment, and I appreciate every single word of reassurance…I’m not buying it though.

I’d give anything to be able to get to that place, where I consider slender and fat to have equal standing in the beauty stakes. The ability to look in a mirror and see fat and beautiful in one and the same body has eluded me since time began and I don’t see that changing any time soon. I can’t bring myself to fly the banner for big and beautiful…I just can’t. I’m not saying that fat people can’t be attractive, because they can…but looking at it through the lens of self, I can’t put those two words together because I don’t feel it, you know? I recognise that not everyone feels that way…but I do.

That said, in relation to the way I felt 62lbs ago, I feel awesome.  And relatively speaking, I’m looking better. But that’s because I’m skinnier. I’ll look even better still when I get the next hundred and a bit pounds off.

Good job there’s no Smart Points in humble pie… 🙂

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