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The Currency Of Calories

So, three days in to the new regime and I think it’s fair to say that I’m on a rather steep learning curve…I’m having to kick my handbrake on with every step to save me rolling backwards whilst I fanny about logging everything I eat and drink into My Fitness Pal. This land of calories is a whole new world and I feel a bit like a tourist, you know? After counting points for the last eighteen months, it’s like having a pocket full of pennies when everything’s priced in cents.

Friday, which was day one of my new regime, was the hardest.  I got busy logging my breakfast, and made and logged some lunch to take to work, and then almost had a panic attack when I realised that I’d accounted for roughly two thirds of my daily allowance already.  Whaaa..?  I wanted to hammer down the door of Weight Watchers and beg them to let me back in so I could cling to the tried and tested like a drowning man would cling to a life vest. I didn’t, and in any event I’d forgotten they don’t actually know I’ve gone anywhere yet.

Seriously..? There’s no wonder I haven’t lost any weight recently if this is what a calorie budget buys you. Talk about a wake-up call..!

There’s no such thing as free food when you’re counting calories, is there? Even when you’re talking about foods with a negative calorie value. I distinctly remember someone telling me once that your body expends more calories digesting a tomato than the number of calories contained in the tomato which strikes me as a bloody good deal but even so, according to MFP they have to be counted.

I’m missing the free shit. Grapes are a great example, right? When I eat grapes, which I do all the time, what I actually eat is a punnet of grapes, and before you tell me that’s not normal just like eating a whole melon at one sitting isn’t normal, it’s normal for me. And Weight Watchers used to let me do it.

The Asshole voice went into overdrive on Friday and tried to persuade me that I was actually going to starve. I was fretting as I put my work bag in the car along with my small boxed chicken salad and my one hundred and sixty grams of grapes, to the point where I had to run back into the house for a stress poo, so convinced was I that the world as I knew it was about to end. I felt nervous and a bit twitchy, like an addict with a restricted supply chain…oh, wait a minute…

Thing is, I’d put it out there hadn’t I..? I’d told the whole fucking world that I was going to count calories on My Fitness Pal and as I’ve said a million times before, the only thing bigger than my arse is my pride, which would never allow me to quit on day one no matter how quickly I was fading away.

I’d also committed to drinking at least two litres of water, so for the last three days by lunchtime my eyeballs have been bobbing around above the fill level, and I’ve spent every afternoon peeing like a racehorse.

All that said, I’m starting to get into the swing of things. The weekend has gone really well, you know? God of Pain cast his eyes over my plan on Saturday and gave it the thumbs up, and I didn’t even flinch when the Shitbird Scale took a pot shot at me yesterday morning by declaring a small gain. I suspected that was coming after all the No Count carbs in the early part of last week so I made a jaunty exit from the bathroom without dwelling on it, and imagined instead what the number would be next Sunday. That’s one I’m excited to see.

I have a really good feeling about this. And listen, if any of you do MFP and want to come knocking and add me as a friend, I’m logged as BOTSG_Dee and I’d love to hook up with you. We’re all in this together after all 🙂

By the way, one or two people have asked me why they weren’t able to leave comments on Nicola’s Shitbird page, and I hadn’t realised that the comments bit wasn’t enabled – all fixed now if you want to chat to Nic directly.

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Me? Fussy??

You would have laughed at me on Wednesday night if you’d seen me at dinner. I was working away, and it was the end of a long day which had seen me making my usual fifty mile commute in the morning, before doubling back for a quick pit-stop at home then driving another hundred and forty odd miles in the opposite direction to get to a working dinner with one of the teams I support.

Bear in mind also that I was trying really hard to step away from the edge after the Shitbird shocker on Wednesday morning, and I was beyond determined that two days out of control wasn’t going to turn into three, or four or the rest of 2017. Yeah, I see you nodding…you know me.

Throughout the day, I’d dodged all manner of food bombs, with my shiny new resolve. I’d managed to get lost on the way to my first meeting, which was at a hotel in the city, and when I eventually got there with one minute to spare, having been stuck in traffic (which is doubly stressful when your bit is first on the bloody agenda) it was not easy saying no to breakfast pastries. There was a massive tray of pain au chocolat plonked right next to the coffee and they’d been largely ignored by everyone in the room, which my fat-girl brain still struggles to comprehend. Same again with the freshly baked cookies at coffee time.

Anyway, I resisted. Despite the best efforts of my Asshole voice, I might add, who was lobbying hard that Wednesday to Saturday this week should be classed as off-limits to all things diet-related because after all I was starting again on Sunday so technically these four days shouldn’t count.

When I got back home and packed my overnight bag I grabbed a very light lunch before heading south, and it’s fair to say that by the time I’d met up with a bunch of colleagues in the bar that night I was ravenous and looking forward to the meal. I was confident, you know? I had plenty of points in the bank and I was feeling strong.

When they brought the plates out, my fat-girl eyes were practically out on stalks. It was roast beef and Yorkshire pudding and I shit you not, the Yorkshires were the size of tyres. There was plenty of beef on the plate and a pile of vegetables…man, I was in heaven.

Until I tasted it. Meh. It was lukewarm. And I don’t think the chef had fully engaged with the concept of seasoning, I mean it took bland to a whole new level. And the vegetables were a bit soft, you know? The beef was just sort of okay…a bit well done for my taste. Actually I’m being kind, I could have soled my fucking boots with it, but the biggest letdown of all was the Yorkshire pudding…it was all style and no substance. It looked big and fluffy and amazing but it tasted of nothing. All fur coat and no knickers, as my Grandma would have said.

That said, since I usually think like a fat girl, disappointed tastebuds wouldn’t generally disrupt my ability to clear a plate, you know? But they did on Wednesday. I decided that the sides of the Yorkshire pudding reminded me of burned toast and the base was swimming in fat, so that got pushed to one side, followed by the mushy vegetables and the tough-as-old-boots beef. The mashed potato had a tinge of grey and the roast potatoes were soggy. So I nibbled at a bit here and a bit there but I mainly pushed it around my plate.

The bloke sitting beside me noticed that I wasn’t overly impressed and confided in me that his wife was a picky eater too. I just stared at him in astonishment, I mean do I look like a picky eater? I weigh two hundred and forty one fucking pounds so I can’t be that picky, can I? It proper amused me.

Eff why eye, I turned down dessert too, which was chocolate brownie with walnuts and clotted cream, and by the way it looked amazing, so I think it’s fair to say my wobble is over, and I’m back in the game. I’m feeling strong 🙂

I have two treats in store for you today…first of all, we have a brand new guest post on our Thoughts From The Posse page. It’s written by a very special lady who has taken her courage in both hands and shared her story, which I have to say is pretty amazing. It made me laugh, and it made me cry. She’s a bit nervous about putting herself out there, and I know she’d love to hear from you if you can relate to her journey.

The second thing I want to share with you is a brand new feature. It’s been a while since I tinkered with the format hasn’t it?  I figured it was time to mix it up a bit.

Lots of people have written to me and talked about the fact that I post my Shitbird picture every weigh day. Mainly folk think I’m slightly bonkers to even think about going public with what I weigh, but I’ll tell you what, it’s a really effective accountability tool and a handful of people have said they wished they had something like that to keep them playing with a straight bat…well, be careful what you wish for!

If you’d like your very own weight-tracking page, consider it done.  Nicola, who shared her story today is my guinea pig, and she’s taken the plunge with her very own Shitbird page…check it out, and if you’d like one of your own just let me know…I’ll happily build one for you. After all, we’re all in this together, right?

 

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The Myth Of Straight And Narrow

It’s the sole topic of conversation right now, this dieting malarkey. Just about every bit of small talk and chatter I’ve overheard relating to the festive season has involved folk exchanging war stories about the obscene amount of food and drink they’ve consumed, and how they need to drop the additional pounds now it’s all over. I’ve got to say,  most of the people I know don’t actually look any different despite pretending that they ate as much as I did. Me, well…the party going on in my pants tells its own story.

Its also impossible to dodge the multitude of programmes on the telly about this diet or that fitness regime, to the point where normal people must surely be getting pissed off with it all. I know from experience that fat classes up and down the country will be bursting at the seams for the next few weeks, and gym regulars will be muttering under their breath as the latest batch of fatties adjust their brand-new-out-of-the-box fitbits and form an orderly queue for the exercise bikes. There’s definitely more traffic than usual on this road to Skinny Town.

What I’m beginning to realise, is that this isn’t the long straight road I’d imagined as I embarked on this journey, you know? On the 17th August 2015 I set off thinking there’s no reason why I can’t achieve a steady loss of 2lbs per week, so that’s… *screws face up, thinks for a minute then gives up and reaches for a calculator* …175lbs too heavy divided by 2lbs per week is 88 weeks, and 88 weeks from now takes me up to…15th March 2017. Ta Daaah!

That’s the day I’ll shimmy into my skinny jeans and sashay down the road with my neat and tidy tushie, right?

Hang on a minute… *looks down at buddha body still encased in elasticated waistband* …that’s only 10 weeks from now. Fuck. How did that happen? To get back on track I’ll need to lose 12lbs per week every week between now and then. Yeah, good luck with that, Dee. Way to go.

So maybe there were some weeks where I didn’t lose two pounds…yeah, like the last three months where you’ve been fannying around and regained a bunch of weight. Theres been a distinct absence of solid 2lb losses in recent times, in fact most weeks out of the last twelve I’ve either clung on by my fingertips and maintained, or I’ve hurtled backwards at an alarming rate of knots. I didn’t account for that when I was doing my calculations.

Still. I am where I am but you know what, I refuse to get down about it. I could so easily have been sat here, dying a little bit inside and polishing the wing mirror on my mobility scooter with a tear-stained sleeve as I saw only failure behind me and reflected on the fact that I was now 70lbs heavier and knocking on the door of 400lbs because the 22nd August 2015 was just another false start that went nowhere, you know? My dieting life is peppered with false starts that went nowhere.

But that’s not where I am, is it? I ended 2016 around 60lbs lighter than my starting point and I’m still fucking hanging in there. So what,  I might be only one third of the way towards my goal instead of almost there but shit happens and the important thing is never taking your eye off the end game and getting up when your feet get knocked out from underneath you.

I’ve already clocked the tiger waiting for me when I’ve clawed my way out of this valley, I suspect he’ll actually come in the shape of my forthcoming holiday. And beyond that there appears to be shark-infested waters and the odd cyclone but fuck it, at least life won’t be boring, right? I’ve got you lot to keep me company, and it’s all good.

Come on then, let’s crack on 🙂

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All Bent Outta Shape

It occurred to me on the way home from work yesterday that I didn’t have much food in the house. Or, to put it another way there wasn’t  much food in that I could actually eat, which isn’t necessarily one and the same thing. It was day two of my new year, and I needed to head off the can’t be arsed to cook so I’ll just eat [insert highly unsuitable foodstuff HERE] situation that I knew was brewing.

I was on a roll…porridge for breakfast, salad and couscous at lunchtime, and a blank canvas for supper. Oh, and absolutely no junk, which hadn’t exactly filled me with joy as I’d gone through my day. Walking down the corridor at work yesterday with my afternoon cuppa I would have sold my granny for something sweet to go with it, you know?

I’ve got to re-break all those habits that I’ve slipped back into, and it’s a bit like starting from scratch. There’s always food in the office and really, come on surely one cake bar can’t hurt if I count the points? Except it’s hard to have just one, they’re gone in a heartbeat after all and anyway how is it even possible that something you can eat in under half a minute can contain a quarter of your daily points? In spite of all that, just recently I seem to have had difficulty forming the word no.

To be fair, it was a bit easier to say no yesterday, because I’d had an email from God of Pain first thing in the morning inviting me to a post-Christmas weigh-in with the intention of helping me to review my goals…cue bowels turning to liquid. The thoughts galloped through my head like a fucking freight train. Oh my GOD he’s really going to freak out on my ass, I’ve gained another seven pounds since my last bollocking and now I’m going to get his disappointed face which is even worse than his pissed off face…

Actually he’s pretty understanding about the bingeing – he knows a food addict when he sees one. But there are limits and I don’t want to start pushing his buttons. So I ‘fessed up in my return email. I figured it was better to manage his expectations and give him time to wrap his brain around the fact that I’ve packed six months’ worth of dodgy food choices into the ten day holiday window, and I’m now carrying the results around in my pants.

So, as I hit the supermarket last night off the back of my second clean day, I was doing okay. Right up until I clocked all the reduced holiday food. As I poked around in the meat section looking for chicken, my eyes were drawn to all the yellow stickers which were practically screaming BUY ME!! Mini venison pies with buttery shortcrust pastry, reduced to pennies. Filo pastry parcels bursting with goats cheese and onion marmalade, reduced to pennies. Christmas selection boxes with all manner of goodies inside, reduced to fucking pennies. And I couldn’t buy any of it.

As I stomped back to the car clutching my chicken and vegetables I felt like howling with rage that I’d had to pass on a mountain of fat-girl-wet-dream food. It wasn’t fair, in fact at that moment life felt very unfair and I narrowly avoided having a full on diva strop right there in the car park as I raged about the fact that I was a) fat and b) on a diet.

I’ve still got a face on about it to be honest. It’s hard. Being good sucks. I went to bed last night and dreamed about mini venison pies. That said, I survived day two…and there are no points in mini venison pies if all you do is dream about them, right?

Come on day three, let’s see what you’ve got.

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It Was The Mince Pie That Did It

You know, don’t you, when you wake up brimming with determination that today’s the day you’re going to tip your world the right way up again, but then you go downstairs and eat a mince pie for breakfast that the day is going to be one of those days, where the diet turns to shit before you’ve even left the house.

That mince pie totally set me off on the wrong path this morning. Thirty seconds of heaven, followed by an hour in the car on my morning commute where I sat and sulked at my stupidity, and sang along to no songs on the radio. Not even the Mariah Carey All I Want For Christmas song, during which I normally am Mariah Carey for that brief moment in time, usually at the very top of my lungs.

To add insult to injury, I lifted said mince pie out of its foil jacket on the kitchen counter, right next to my new bathroom scales which are sitting on the counter top impassively – we haven’t eyeballed each other yet – waiting to be programmed. Oh yes that’s right, programmed. User one, name ‘fat knacker’. When I figure out which buttons to press I have to enter my height and my age so it can ruin my day in a bells and whistles kind of way by reporting not only my weight but also my BMI and my water content, although how it knows that is anybody’s guess. I already know we’re not going to see eye to eye.

For the first time today, the Asshole voice tested the water by suggesting that I start again on the first Monday in the New Year. I closed him down immediately of course, good grief if it becomes open season between now and then, I’ll be lumbering into January with some serious regained poundage clinging to my arse. No doubt about it. So I’ll just carry on having these exhausting daily negotiations inside my own head about whether I should/shouldn’t/can/can’t/will/won’t eat whatever the fuck I want.

I know I’ve put more weight on. I can feel it on my body. I just don’t know how much because although my new scales arrived last Wednesday they remain in virgin un-stood-on condition. I tried to programme my details in but it didn’t do what the booklet said it would do when I pressed whatever I was supposed to press, so I gave up immediately and decided to try again later. It’s now eight days later and I’ve just not quite worked my way around to having another go.

Avoidance tactics…self-sabotage…mince pies for breakfast. I’m being a pillock.

But I’m still trying. I’m not giving up, and I’m definitely not starting over on the first Monday after New Year. I’m starting again today.

 

Have a great weekend folks…before you go, I’m delighted to share a new guest post on my Thoughts From The Posse page…thank you Jamie for sharing your story, and I’m sure you guys will pitch in with your support like you always do… 🙂

 

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