Tag Archives: proud

Every Day’s A Lesson

So yesterday I learned two things. I learned that it’s possible to survive two days of conference without eating my own bodyweight in crap. I think it’s the first time ever. And although there was an incident with half a glass of prosecco and two bags of Scampi Fries on Wednesday evening, I’m still claiming it as a victory because forty minutes in the pool more than covered the calories, so I paid my dieting debt and then some.

On the other hand, I learned that it’s not possible to drive the one hundred and thirty miles home with a large carton of cherries on the passenger seat without incident. Like 400 grams’ worth of incident. I was only going to have one or two, but I walked through my front door clutching a carton full of nothing except stalks and stones.

Not surprisingly, overnight I also leaned that eating 400 grams’ worth of cherries all in one go is not compatible with a good night’s sleep although to be fair, after multiple trips to the bathroom I should’ve been at least ten pounds lighter by the time my alarm went off.

Every day’s a lesson, right?

Checking out of the hotel yesterday I felt so smug, like I was unbreakable and I wanted to tell the world about my will of iron. Not even half an hour later, faced with a large carton of cherries I’m a fucking pushover…I wouldn’t care, I only bought them because I noticed they’d been reduced in price when I stopped to buy fuel. Will of iron my arse.

Whatever. I’ve spent the last two days sidestepping bowls of boiled sweets, ignoring the mocked-up tuck shop that had been set out in the corner of the conference room for anybody to just dive right in and bypassing the burgers and sausages and fancy coleslaw on barbecue night in favour of chicken and salad.

I’ve had no chocolate and no dessert, and I shunned the big cooked hotel breakfasts in favour of skinny girl choices. I swam both days, and we had an escorted walking tour around Stratford-Upon-Avon after lunch on Wednesday which put a couple of miles under my feet. I pulled it off, so throwing caution to the wind and vaporising a ton of cherries isn’t worth wasting any angst over. For what it’s worth they were bloody lovely, even if they should’ve lasted me at least three days.

So anyway, with conference well and truly over, my thoughts are turning to the weekend. Are you up to much?

Back in March, when July seemed like a lifetime away (and I’m bound to be skinny by then, right?) in a moment of madness I thought it might be fun to run a 5k obstacle course and haul myself over a load of giant inflatables whilst folk chuck paint at me on the way round. So I signed up to do it with a bunch of crazy-assed friends, and it’s come around rather more quickly than I expected. Like, it’s tomorrow.

The thing is, I appear to be still fat with a dodgy knee.




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Feeling Just A Little Short-Changed

I hopped aboard the Shitbird Scale yesterday morning with a real sense of anticipation, you know that way where you know your input has been off-the-chart awesome and you’re ready to take the accolade…yeah.  Well. Even with my best of fifteen approach to recording the number it refused to go lower than two pounds off.

And I know it’s a solid number. It’s my go-to number after all…If I lose two pounds a week between now and…blah blah. It’s just with six exercise classes, one 5k park run and a text-book execution of my food plan under my belt last week, I was hoping for a little bit more. I couldn’t help feeling just a teeny bit short-changed if I’m honest. Shitbird thing.

Still, you bounce back, right? That was then, and this is now. Even though I’m a bit miffed at not bagging a number befitting the effort I put in, I’m now just two more pounds away from breaking new ground and that’s when I’ll know for certain that the surety of my step over the last three months has wiped the indiscretions of the three months before that off my record card. I woke up this morning with seventy seven days of food sobriety in my rear-view mirror and I’m starting to really feel the benefit now.

So let me tell you about the Park Run that we did on Saturday. Please understand that I use the word ‘run’ in its loosest possible sense, since I don’t think for one minute that the occasional burst of speed that I managed to pull out of the bag as I walked around the course could actually constitute running. And the fact that I placed 141st out of 143 clearly demonstrates that I completed the course at a snail’s pace when compared to my competition. I’ll tell you what though…I don’t care.

It took me 55.01 minutes to do my 5km, and the truth is I didn’t really care how long it took any of the other 142 folk to do theirs. Well apart from my friends of course, I cared about their numbers. There were two personal best times amongst our gang, some of whom complete the event every week and I was really happy for them. I was happy for me too, I mean I survived. And if I’m going to do this regularly, I’ve got my baseline now haven’t I? I’ll be the one going in just a little bit harder next time so I can beat my own personal best. The only way is up, right?

It occurred to me halfway around the course that wearing trainers instead of walking boots might have been a good idea…it was a deliberate choice because I figured I wouldn’t be running, but then when I was there and caught up in the atmosphere, I wanted to go a bit faster and actually, on the downhill bits towards the end when me and Charlie really got into our stride I was almost running. Almost. Definitely trainers next time.

I knew that dogs were welcome so I took Charlie dog with me, and he loved it, I mean from his perspective what’s not to love…people and parks are two of his favourite things. Well, he loved it apart from the fact that he kept getting lapped by a poodle, whose hooman was considerably faster than me…I don’t think that did his cocker spaniel street cred much good at all. Maybe if I’d had three shits on the way round like he did I might have been able to go a bit faster..? Just sayin’ 🙂

Anyway, I’m going for it again big style this week. I’m going to take 3lbs off by next Sunday if it kills me…then I’m into virgin territory, and how exciting is that 🙂

Check it out…we have a new guest post on our Thoughts From The Posse page…written by one of my very best friends, who has finally caved after all my nagging and put pen to paper. Enjoy!

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Going The Extra Mile

What a tremendous weekend we just had…the boathouse was perfect with the most amazing views of the sea, and I can’t even tell you how lovely it was to kick back and relax with my best girls. The three days passed in a flash, with plenty of laughing, a bit of walking, a few movies in pyjamas with a steady trickle of prosecco and of course gossip in the hot tub. And guess how many wrong steps I took with my food plan…? Not a single one. You would’ve been proud of me, I totally pulled it off.

How on earth I managed it is beyond me, but despite being surrounded by multiple booby-traps in the shape of a hundred different trigger foods, not a single naughty morsel passed my lips. Steady on there, mind you don’t go getting dazzled by the light bouncing off my halo 🙂

Our girly weekends usually pass in a haze of prosecco, and I do enjoy a cheeky gin or a few glasses of fizz but somehow, spending my limited food budget on booze makes me feel like I’m not getting the best value out of it, you know? I’m not generally a big drinker, and don’t forget I have the heart of a fat girl so in order to balance the books if it comes down to one or the other, I’d rather eat.

We were self-catering and everyone had brought pretty healthy stuff, so clean eating was easy. It just worked. Of course the healthy food was in complete contrast to the mountain of chocolate and salty snacks which also made the trip, but to be fair this is usually an all bets are off kind of weekend where over-indulging on crap is par for the course.

I’m sad it’s over ’till the next time but I’m feeling relieved and a tiny bit proud actually, at the fact that I navigated it without putting so much as a foot wrong, I mean weekends like this, where my guard is completely down and I’m surrounded by temptation should be difficult, right? Thing is, it wasn’t. I don’t really understand why but I’m happy to just accept it as a gift from the Gods of Skinny. I’m in the sweet spot and this is day 72…more than ten weeks without a wobble. Who knew that could even happen?

I’m a bit pissed off with the Shitbird Scale. Just for a change, right? I feel like my superhuman effort should be being rewarded with supersize losses but I’m still having to drag every fucking pound kicking and screaming from my pants. I weighed and posted two days early last week because I was going to be away on my normal weigh-day but despite a positive result last Friday and a stellar weekend I haven’t lost an ounce since. Where’s the justice in that?

Whatever…the number is less important than the fact that I’m getting the input right, and it’ll catch up eventually. I’m only 4lbs over my lowest weight on this diet so far and I’m impatient to start breaking new ground, you know?

I’m working my cahoonies off this week in the Kingdom of Pain,  skidding into Wednesday with three classes under my belt already and number four looming tonight. Friday will see number five and Sunday will see number six. Plus I’ve registered to do a 5k park event with a bunch of friends on Saturday so I tell you what, if the Shitbird scale doesn’t keep it’s end of the deal on Sunday with a number worthy of all that effort I’ll proper see my arse.

Come on, I’m pitching for 3lbs off this week…who’s with me? 🙂


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I’m A Citreenie!


I felt a bit twitchy when I walked through the doors of the Kingdom of Pain yesterday because I knew that straight after Fat Furnace, somewhere around the point where I’d worn myself out doing two circuits of kettle bells and planks and power bags and reverse lunges, I was going to have to strut my stuff in front of a very solemn God of Pain who would be holding a clipboard and scrutinising my every move…my first assessment.

In our fitness studio there’s a bit of a colour vibe going on, and the colour of the T-shirt you get to wear indicates what level of torture you’re going to be subjected to when you walk into a fat furnace class. It tells people how fit you are, sort of like the belt system in martial arts, right? As a rookie, you wear one of your own T-shirts which is sort of couch-potato-in-training status. But once God of Pain thinks you’ve practised enough and got your technique down, you get formally assessed and providing he’s happy with what you do you’re awarded your first colour…last night, I got mine.

After four months of blood sweat and tears I’ve earned my yellow T-shirt. I’m officially a citreenie, and I shall wear my T-shirt with pride. It feels awesome, you know? Four months ago I didn’t know how I was going to survive my first week, and a T-shirt of any colour looked way out of reach…they were for proper people who deserved to be there and didn’t risk conking out every time they broke a sweat. But look at me, I’m one of them now…one of the gang.

You might have seen the picture on Facebook…admittedly it’s not the most flattering photo of me that you’ll ever see, with my purple cheeks and sweaty hair plastered to my face but I can pretty much guarantee that you’re not likely to spot a happier girl anywhere. It’s a flaw in God of Pain’s ritual, making you pose for a post-assessment photo in your new T-shirt when you’ve just done an hour of circuit training, but right at that moment I didn’t really care. Even the fact that he was going to tag me on social media and share my hot sweaty jubilation with the world wide web didn’t faze me…I’m a citreenie after all, and we’re well hard.

It’s funny, as I drove home dressed in yellow, my boy rang to see how I’d gone on. After I’d shared my news and had a giddy two minutes, he moved on to more important matters like when are you home and what’s for supper? before uttering those immortal words do you fancy a Chinese? and the funniest thing happened…I opened my mouth to say yes, and no came out. There’s a variation on a theme, right?

Saying no to Chinese food kills me…it’s one of my hardest things. I love it and to be fair I do still eat it, but I have to budget for it. And yesterday I hadn’t. Normally if an unexpected Chinese food opportunity presented itself I’d spend a good while doing a bit of creative accounting to try and find a way to make it fit, but before I had chance to start doing my sums, the word no sprang out of my mouth like it had the hounds of hell on its tail.

No dodgy accounting here…I’m a citreenie, but I can’t rest on my laurels, you know? Fire-opal I’m coming to get ya 🙂


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Getting All Reflective On Your Ass

Can you remember what you were doing exactly one year ago today..? I can. It was a Monday – of course it was – and more than that it was the first Monday after my holiday. It was the Monday I started my diet. It’s been a year folks…I could get a bit choked if I tried, you know? It’s the day a new life came screaming into this world. My new life.

What I wanted to do was spend last night scrolling through some of my early posts and have a good old root about down memory lane. Somewhere around the six months mark I  read through loads of them, and I really enjoyed myself although it kind of felt like I was reading someone else’s diary, if you know what I mean. Was that really me? In the end I didn’t get chance to poke about in the blog because I was working until quite late – I only have two more days at work with a hundred things to do before I switch on my holiday out-of-office so I was a bit up against it to get some stuff finished.

It doesn’t really matter…I don’t need to read it to reflect on the last year. I can kind of feel my way through it by memory, to be honest. I mean sure, I’ll have forgotten some of the detail but if I had to do the elevator summary it goes something like this…Monday 17th August 2015, I started my diet. Like a muppet I decided not to get weighed on day 1, after chickening out of the come to Jesus moment on the scale. I knew the number would be horrible, so I gave it an educated guess instead and decided that when my clothes started to feel looser I’d know I was on track.

That theory works fine unless every garment you possess is made almost entirely of stretchy elasticated middle-agedness. No fixed waistbands on this body back then, so after a couple of weeks when I was very confident that I’d lost at least twenty pounds, I took the plunge and weighed myself…not a smooth move on my part I’ve got to say. I was a decent chunk of change heavier than I’d thought I might have been right at the start, and given that I’d definitely dropped some poundage, I’d obviously underestimated the starting number. Badly.

However, it didn’t throw me off course, when it so easily could have done. Would definitely have done in the past…thing is, I’d started to discover that writing down my feelings was way preferable to eating my feelings. It helped, to talk through what was going on in my head and by some miracle, you lot began to listen, and join in. And out of nowhere, this awesome and unexpected support system sprang up around me. It’s the reason I’m still here.

I don’t remember moving much in the very early days…that came early in the new year when I’d committed to doing the trek and I knew I had to start getting fit pretty much from the lowest possible base. Charlie’s walks got longer bit by bit. Then the hurt machine arrived…do you remember the first time I went on it, and five minutes on the easiest setting almost killed me?

I remember staggering downstairs on legs made of rubber and wondering whether being a fat knacker pre-qualified me to get a refund since it was clear that the relationship between me and that machine was never going to work out. But look what happened when I stuck at it…it became easier, and doing time on the cross-trainer helped me to walk further and further as the weeks rolled on.

In May I discovered two things…firstly I started exploring all the local footpaths and bridle ways which opened a whole new world of interesting walks for both me and Charlie-dog. It spurred me on to walk further. And my friend introduced me to the God Of Pain which was the point at which this shit just got serious…

Those first few weeks in the Kingdom of Pain were tough. But I kept my head down and cracked on…I wasn’t going to step a toe out of line, he was too scary, but I made some new friends who also started getting behind my determination to make it over the mountain. We made it over our own mountain in fact this very weekend.

And here we now are…you lot standing firmly at my shoulder, ready to steady me if I trip and keep me going if I’m running out of steam. My new friends giving up their precious weekend days to push me and walk beside me as I practise and practise some more in preparation for the trek.

I guess what I’m trying to say is if I hadn’t have taken that first step one year ago today, I might be sitting here forty pounds heavier instead of eighty pounds lighter, wishing I had. I’d be packing shapeless garment after shapeless garment into my suitcase ready for my holiday, with frequent stops to get my breath and most of all I’d be hoping that the scenery in Norway was so spectacular that nobody else on the ship would notice me, or how fat I was.

But I did take that first step. And it’s been one of the best years of my life. I’m having a ball. Happy birthday to my fledgling new life. One year down, eighty pounds off and another eighty to go. I’m halfway there folks, and that’s got to be something to celebrate!

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