Tag Archives: shhh naughty words

Has Anyone Seen My Spear?

I’m still in the hole.

On Sunday I managed to reset, and I went to bed feeling like a food survivor. I was pre-occupied with the thought of food all day but although I succumbed to the trifle, I trod carefully and acted like I had mud stripes on my forehead and a spear in my hand…I was a warrior, digging in and ready to fight one food battle at a time.

Monday was going to be my sugar-free ground zero, remember? It was a great plan, only I accepted a piece of apple cake at my Godmother’s wake, which had been baked by one of her good friends. Her friend’s need to find comfort through feeding people fitted hand-in-glove with my need to seek comfort in eating what she’d baked. The scones were good too, in case you’re wondering.

At that point I dropped my spear, and it was all downhill from there. As if the apple cake and the scone hadn’t done enough damage, my boy and I had promised to take mum out for lunch afterwards, and although I’d deliberately suggested eating at a great restaurant which has one of my favourite healthy menus, I went and ordered a dirty great gourmet burger with sweet potato fries, which wasn’t helpful.

I had a word with myself, and agreed to forgive the false start on the basis that Monday had been a particularly emotional and difficult day, and maybe I’d expected too much of myself under the circumstances. I made a new plan to start over on Tuesday.

Which I did. And it was all going really well until I hit lunchtime, when the wheels came off again. I allowed myself to be seduced by the idea of eating the same as the girls in the office who were visiting a local deli to pick up something good, and I almost broke my neck to join in. That, together with the five cookies I ate mid-afternoon meant I hit suppertime with barely any calories left in the bank, and bang on cue another fuck it moment happened when I went all out and cooked a calorie-laden supper for me and my boy.

Followed by ice-cream.

I’m going through the motions of saying I’ll reset again today. Except already I can hear the Asshole in my head pissing himself laughing at my intention to win back the upper hand. Whatever, whatever, whateverlet’s see you try, bitch.

I know where the booby traps are. I have to travel up to Scotland this afternoon on business. Three hours each way on a train with a trolly service and a buffet car, and I’m overnighting in a hotel with a room service menu. It’s got fucking disaster written all over it and I feel massively, helplessly out of control.

I’m home late tomorrow and then…then I’ll have a golden window of opportunity to reset the dial properly, since I’m going to be forced down the road of nil-by-mouth from twelve o’clock midnight.

My knee surgery happens on Friday morning. I imagine when I wake up afterwards I’ll feel as rough as toast due to the anaesthetic, which usually knocks me sick and I won’t feel much like eating. Nor will I be able to drive, so hobbling to the shops to buy Haagen Dazs isn’t going to be one of my options. So, here’s the plan.

When I get back tomorrow evening I’ll do a healthy food shop, which I’ll be stuck with until I’m mobile again. And that might take a while. There’s no point in asking my boy to bring me naughties since I have already formally appointed him as the fun police and no matter what tactics I might wheel out he’ll point blank refuse to help me wrap my chops around anything I shouldn’t be eating.

This isn’t me giving myself licence to throw caution to the wind for the next forty eight hours by the way…if I can find my spear, I’ll crack on with the business of being a warrior. All I’m saying is, if I can’t there’s a plan B.

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On Guard Against The Afters

So, I’m reliably informed that The Afters are coming for me, which is what Vickie calls it when you’re past the crisis and the urge to go rogue sneaks up on you without warning. I’m taking no chances. I might not have expected it, but that four pound loss on Sunday was hard-won, especially  when you consider it in the context of what was happening in my life last week, right? I’m doubly determined that the fuck-up fairy is not going to creep up behind me and make off with those four pounds like a thief in the night. So I’m on guard, 24/7 against myself.

I can feel her lurking. I had a bad day on Monday when the reality of life without one of my special people started to bite, and by mid afternoon I’d eaten breakfast lunch and dinner, with a handful of snacks thrown in for good measure. I was at least six hundred calories over my daily budget. I managed to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat by forcing myself to cycle down to the Kingdom of Pain and back – a very hilly eight mile round trip – and doing an hours’ worth of boxing whilst I was there. I brought it home on the nose, but only just…it was a close call.

I did a similar thing yesterday. By late afternoon I was in deficit, having eaten a big lunch and grazed through the afternoon. It was another tough day and seeing my mum so broken and missing her friend sent me hurtling towards Snacksville at warp speed. I pulled it back by going to an unplanned circuit training session last night, which meant that I ended the day with a few calories in the bank but again it felt like I was teetering on the edge.

Today, I’m determined that I’m not going to dance to the tune of that same upside-down fuckery. I’m done with the white knuckle ride. I am working out tonight, but I’m determined to walk through the doors of the Kingdom of Pain with a dinner’s worth of calories ring-fenced in the bank for afterwards. That means dinner and any additional healthy treats can come when I’ve earned them rather than spending my food budget up ahead on tick, and having to sweat my way back from the cliff edge.

I’m exhausted. For the last few nights, any hope of sleep has disappeared as soon as my head hits the pillow. I’m worried about my mum, who’s elderly and very fragile, and not in the best of health herself. I’m trying to sort out a funeral and I’m worried about holding it together long enough on that day so I can deliver a eulogy which is worthy of my Godmother. Most of all I’m grieving. It’s a killer combination and it’s fucking grim trying to hold it all together full stop, you know?

When food has always been your person, or the blanket that you wrap yourself up in whenever life takes a pot shot, finding a new way of processing stuff which doesn’t involve medicating with food sucks till the end of time. Despite logic telling me that five family bags of cheese balls and a Daim cake wouldn’t actually make me feel any better, it doesn’t stop me from wanting to give it my best shot. I won’t go there, but for the love of God I want to.

I just keep telling myself that this too will pass.

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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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