Tag Archives: shitbird scale

Dee’s Pity Party

You know one of the life skills that I don’t ever seem to get any better at is having the patience to persevere with a plan when it doesn’t run to the schedule I’ve got in my head. And before you start chiding me, I promise I’m not about to fall off the wagon but seriously, I deserved more than the Shitbird Scale awarded me this week. Not even a full pound, despite throwing everything I’ve got at this, including my heart and soul.

How can that be right?  I could accept a nought point fuck-all more easily if I was fannying around like I did towards the back end of last year, taking two steps forward and one step back. That would deserve a measly three quarters of a pound, but seriously, I’m busting my balls here to get a good number. I did four classes last week plus almost ten miles hiking on Saturday and I even stood firm in the face of torture from a cheese sandwich…that on its own deserves more than a nought point seven five on the screen, surely?

If I was able to stamp my foot, I would, but just to add to my list of woes I managed to bust my dodgy knee up pretty good during our hike at the weekend. I have no idea what happened, but somehow it went rogue on me and I couldn’t manage the last half a mile…one of my friends had to walk ahead and bring his car back to collect me. I’m struggling to put any weight through it at all now and the red hot poker that was part of the wallpaper of my life when I lived in Mooseville has all of a sudden moved back in with a vengeance.

I spent yesterday afternoon at the hospital. The doctor reckons my cartilage is inflamed…they X-rayed my knee and all the moving parts look fine, so I just have to rest it, keep it elevated and use ice packs for a few days until the inflammation goes down. Which is fucking marvellous timing. I’ve got a busy week lined up with limited opportunity to work from home, at least for the next couple of days.

I guess the one saving grace going on here is that despite hitting a bit of a pothole, my Asshole voice hasn’t made a grab for the wheel. That would’ve put the cherry on top, right? I was fed up all day yesterday after my conversation with the Shitbird Scale and hobbling around in agony all day didn’t sweeten my mood, in fact I had a full blown pity party going on, which isn’t like me, you know? I guess we’re all allowed a strop once in a while, and I’m just grateful that this one came without a kamikaze desire to face plant into a bucket of Haagen Dazs. Today marks twelve weeks since I brought my A-game. Eighty four days food sober, and there’s not a damn thing the Shitbird Scale can do to pop that balloon.

I’ve woken up with a better attitude today, and I’m forcing myself to focus on the positives. It might only be three quarters of a pound, but it’s the twelfth consecutive loss since New Year and I’m twenty one pounds lighter than I was then. I’m a good dress size smaller now than I was at Christmas. I can still do two classes this week because Muffin Top and Bingo Wings works my core and my arms and demands nothing whatsoever of my knees. And it occurred to me as I laid in bed last night reflecting on the day, that I’d barely got in from the hospital yesterday afternoon before I was in touch with God of Pain asking what I could do this week instead of telling him what I couldn’t.

That’s rather a seismic shift isn’t it?

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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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I Wish I’d Written That

I read something really profound the other day…it was a post written by Holly, one of my favourite bloggers. I guess we all have certain blogs that we love to read, and I suppose like many of you who poke around the blogosphere I often find nuggets of wisdom from fellow travellers that help me in my own journey.

From time to time I read something and wish I’d written it myself, you know? This was one of those times. Holly wrote a blog post called Food Is My Person, (click HERE to find it) and reading her words was like looking into my own soul. It broke the surface of what I thought I felt about food, and forced me to acknowledge something much deeper. She articulated food addiction in a way that brought me to tears, and I identified with every single word, so I wanted to show it to you.

In some ways yesterday wasn’t a great day for me – it reminded me of the bad old days where a run-in with the Bitch in the Bathroom could, at the very least, ruin my whole day and often torpedo my food plan altogether. There should be some kind of reaction-cam in my bathroom so I could show you how quickly my mood changes depending on what conversation I have with the scale.

There are times when I walk into the bathroom jauntily, convinced I’ve had a good week, then punch the air and walk out just as jauntily. Other times I’ll waltz around the bathroom hopping on and off again multiple times on every damn tile before shuffling out of the bathroom like a condemned man if I can’t make it generate any good news.  I hate that this little glass square has the potential to vacuum my sunny disposition clean away and flick my happiness switch from one extreme to the other in an instant.

Yesterday, the Shitbird Scale started off by suggesting I’d gained a couple of pounds. For the first three or four step-ons it was having no part of this steady downwards trend I’ve been on so far this year. And I knew that couldn’t be right…my food plan has been bob-on and I haven’t put a foot wrong, so no way could I have gained weight.

I walked out of the bathroom with a heavy heart, trying to figure out whether I’d drunk enough water this week, whether I might be retaining fluid, whether I was overdue a poo, whether what I ate the night before might be curled up like a dormant food-baby waiting to be processed…I forensically examined my week, looking for clues as to why I might have plummeted from hero to zero in the weight-loss stakes. My mood headed south at warp speed, I mean I was sour.

I left it ten minutes, and then like a toddler picking a scab I went back in for another go, and this time the shiny glass Shitbird declared a one pound loss. So I nabbed a picture of it real quick and kicked the scale back in its box until next time but it left me feeling wobbly, and that’s stupid. And unnecessary. My input has been one hundred percent solid and my mind is focused. I’m in a good place.

I spent the rest of the day chuntering to myself. The scale has no power over me. Only I have power over me. I am forty two days food sober and I feel great. I am strong and I’m doing this, and that’s all that matters. The Shitbird Scale is a fucking psychopath. 

I might have repeated that last sentence more than once, just so you know 🙂


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One Whole Week

When I stepped aboard the Shitbird Scale last week and the number forced me to acknowledge exactly how rebellious I’d allowed myself to become, I took it on the chin. As the week went on, I resisted the temptation to check in every day, so between you and me I approached yesterday’s weigh-in with not a little bit of trepidation…lets be honest, there hasn’t been much good news coming out of my bathroom of late.

I’d had a good week, so I was confident that the needle wouldn’t have moved up. Given my recent trajectory that’s progress in itself, right? I was hoping for a solid two pounds off. I felt like I deserved two pounds, because I’ve tried really hard to kick the Asshole voice into the long grass and focus on my input this week. One of the biggest revelations for me over the last year or so has been that taking care of the input is my job, and actually all the scale needs to do is report the output. It’s less about the number, and more about my side of the deal.

Except the bitch in my bathroom used to toy with me…she seemed to get off on messing with my mojo by giving me a different reading within seconds of the last depending on which tile in the bathroom she happened to be sitting on when I hopped aboard. and I played right into her hands…best of three. No, hang on a minute, let’s make it best of five. Or ten, or fifteen…maybe I should take an average…? No wonder it twisted my melon.

Although initially I baulked at the price, I think choosing this particular Shitbird Scale when the old bitch hit the skids was one of my better ideas. I mean obviously we did the customary weigh-day waltz around the bathroom to get the best possible reading, but unlike the last one, Shitbird scale held the line – it didn’t matter which tile it stood on, the number was the same. There was a definite air of it is what it is, fool…take it or leave it, you know? And since the number was three pounds lower than last week, I’ll take it thank you very much.

Three pounds. That has a nice ring to it doesn’t it?  And it feel like a solid three, because it wasn’t a one, then a four and a two before it landed on three. Times past, when I’ve been awarded a good loss and I’ve declared a successful week, the bitch has been known to snatch it back the following day and revert to something less impressive. Rarely did it happen the other way around, although to be fair I wasn’t kidding when I hinted at the best of fifteen…it’s not unheard of, as rituals go.

The thing is, even before I clocked the number, I felt calm and self-assured on the inside. I’ve stopped bouncing from feast to famine, you know? This week, I managed to get a grip. And it’s fragile, I know that, but it’s there and it’s holding. I’ve been the one behind the wheel this last week, and the Asshole voice wasn’t even holding the map.

Seven good days. Seven days’ worth of skin in the game through a week that was as challenging as it gets – I’ve had two Christmas-related social events, two off-site meetings where lunch was out of my direct control and one night out with my boy where I selected carefully from the menu based on what I could have rather than what I wanted, and immediately followed up one sensible choice with another as I avoided the Ben & Jerry’s concession in the cinema. I didn’t even try and lick the counter as I walked past.

That’s progress folks  🙂

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Knowing Where I’m At

So, Friday night was work’s Christmas doo – if you’ve been reading along for a while you’ll know that the prospect of a big night out generally makes me want to run at warp speed in the opposite direction, but for once I decided not to be an antisocial old git, and I went along. As it turns out, I had an awesome time, in fact I can’t remember the last time I laughed so much.

We’d arranged to have a pre-party face make-over, so by the time we got there I didn’t really look like me at all. We all sort of ended up with a similar version of the same thing, dark smoky eyes and a ton of face paint which I’ve got to say didn’t look half bad, right up until I got a bit warm halfway through the evening and my face started melting…it was nice whilst it lasted though. Except, I looked a bit like a panda. There were two girls doing make-up, and I think I got the rookie, you know?

Saturday afternoon was a low point. I’d woken up with renewed determination that I could kick the Asshole voice into the long grass if he started being a twat, and by 2pm I still had a full house of smart points left. Eating nothing seems to be the safest option for me, you know? I can hold out for ages, it’s stopping once I’ve started that gives me a problem. Anyway I ran a few errands, went for my nails and eyelashes done and then walked Charlie dog before I turned my attention to food.

That’s the point at which it went horribly wrong. I had a full-on binge, having decided that (wait for it, Asshole logic at its finest) since Sunday was my weigh day, and I’d actually given up trying to programme my new scales with the fancy stuff and just taken them upstairs, midnight Saturday was my line in the sand. Sunday I was back on it.

So best buy a Daim cake now because from Sunday when I woke up I wouldn’t be eating anything like that, right? So I actually went to the supermarket and bought the offending article, together with a family sized moussaka. And a large bag of crisps to eat whilst the moussaka was cooking. Not cheese balls, I wouldn’t let myself go there and strangely I didn’t even try.

Having vaporised the moussaka and the crisps, I cut myself a quarter of the Daim cake. It was gone in sixty seconds and oh my days it tasted amazing. So I cut another quarter and ate that too. I was starting to feel a bit sick at this point, but I had that now or never logic going round and round in my head…if you don’t eat it now you won’t be able to eat it at all, you’re back on the diet tomorrow

The third quarter took a bit of getting down to be honest, but having eaten it I had to go hard for the fourth and final quarter, otherwise my boy would know I’d eaten three quarters of a Daim cake when he got in from work and I’d be too ashamed to look him in the eye. So I ate the lot, and got rid of the packaging in the outside bin before falling into a food coma and dozing in my armchair for a good couple of hours. I woke up feeling bloated and bilious with rampant indigestion.

Does that sound familiar..? It does to me. That was my life, once upon a time and I think I shocked myself at how comfortably I was able to just step back into the bad old days. And I brooded about it for the rest of the day, and into the evening. I felt so sick, which was hardly a fucking surprise.

Sunday dawned, and I didn’t feel any better. And then I stood on my new scale – which by the way will be known hereafter as the shitbird scale – and felt even worse. I wanted to know where I was at…well, let me tell you exactly where I’m at. I’m fifteen pounds heavier than I was when I set off for Cuba, that’s where. 

Knowing the damage I’ve done drove it home to me how broken my thinking has become of late…I thought I’d moved way past all that head spam, but I’m clearly not as free and clear of it as I’d thought. Mary made an interesting point on Friday when she said

…as a side note… it seems like at first naming the Asshole voice gave you power over him. Because you named him and separated him from who you were and what you want, you could say no. But lately… it feels like when you do something you didn’t want to do, it’s because you felt like you couldn’t say no to the Asshole voice. You don’t seem to have that power over him any more, the confidence that you can overrule him, that you can achieve your goal. It seems like you feel like you’ll inevitably give in, so you might as well get it over with…

Mary, you are spot on. I can’t pinpoint the moment in time where I started hearing my own voice instead of his but I’d lost sight of how quickly I can turn a deaf ear and close him down when I feel like I’m the one in control. So, that’s my homework for this week.

Back to basics. Listen for the Asshole voice, recognise him, and give him a big fat kick in the ging gang goolies every time he tries it on. One day at a time. Yesterday was a good day, once I’d got over the horror of the shitbird scale and I even went to bed last night with points in the bank. Not because it was easy, he was chewing my ear all evening as it happens…but I tuned him out.

I’ve forgiven myself for the fifteen pounds…it is what it is, and at least I know what I’m dealing with now, right? It’s time to get this show on the road 🙂

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