Tag Archives: shitbird scale

The Queen Of Empty Promises

I actually contemplated taking a picture of the Shitbird scale yesterday morning without me standing on it, sort of like a shitbird selfie. In the end, Wednesday’s fall from grace turned into a five day free-for-all, and yesterday was going to be the day it all came good, except it didn’t.

The last thing I wanted to see was a shitty number staring back at me as I struggled with everything else, so I ignored the Shitbird and refused to make eye contact. It was after 11pm before I finally accepted that you lot would likely pelt me with rotten fruit if I tried to wriggle out of being accountable so there we are then, over five pounds in the wrong direction when I finally hopped aboard. Fuck.

I deserve it, to be fair. I’ve been ridiculous. Again. And I don’t know what to tell you. It’s weird you know, more than once since I started writing the blog, some of you have mentioned that other weight-related blogs you’ve followed have disappeared like a fart on a breeze as soon as the person writing it fell off the wagon and when their diet fell by the wayside, so did their writing. I’ve even noticed it myself, you know? There have been two or three people whose journey I’d become invested in, whose posts have become so infrequent as to be virtually non existent. And that’s a real shame, I mean personally speaking – and from a purely selfish perspective – I need you lot more than ever when I’m under the wheels.

It is more than a little bit embarrassing though. I mean, here am I writing a weight loss blog and not losing any fucking weight. More than that, I keep writing about how determined I am and how it’s all going to be great from here on in because this time I’m going to do it except I never fucking get it done. I’m the Queen of empty promises, and that sucks.

For the first time this weekend I kind of understood the reluctance to put words down on the page, but I don’t think it was because I didn’t have anything to say…you know me, I always have words even if I’m just talking shite. The only way I can describe it is it’s like I was rebelling against talking to you lot because you’re all part of my journey, and since me and the diet weren’t even on fucking speaking terms I didn’t want to engage at all. I didn’t log into the blog after I posted on Friday until I was forced to record the shitbird number last night. And that never happens.

I come in here every day, even if it’s not a day where I’m writing. I check out who’s passed through, I respond to my messages, I approve and reply to comments and weed out the trolls and the spam. It’s my safe and happy place and it’s become a big part of my life. But this weekend I just dissed it completely. Messages went unanswered, which is just rude, and if you’ve taken the time to write to me and I haven’t answered you yet I’m really sorry…I will eventually, of course I will. But I’ve been a weird version of myself just because…well, it all feels very fucked up at the moment and I don’t know why.

Answers on a postcard please..? I’m not in control.

However. Today’s a new day, right? Deep breath and start again 🙂


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It’s All Relative, Right?

So yesterday morning I walked the green mile into my bathroom to face the Shitbird conversation with more than a bit of trepidation. I probably deserve a prolonged stint on the naughty step to think about what I ate between between Sunday and Tuesday, but from Wednesday onwards I’ve been following the new Weight Watchers flex programme, and I mean following it to the letter.

I didn’t know what to hope for really, so I kept my fingers crossed that the needle didn’t go in the wrong direction, and technically it didn’t. Except it did.

I should probably set the scene…I was already muttering under my breath as I limbered up for the Shitbird Shuffle, because it’s honestly a pain in the ass. My bathroom floor is made up of hundreds of little mosaic tiles, and being a very old cottage there’s not a wall or a floor that’s flat or true, so I can honestly hop on twenty times and get twenty different numbers. It’s a pantomime that I go through every week.

Obviously I’ve always picked the lowest number, which more often than not is offered up by the tiles starting three black squares to the left of the bath. It might not be one hundred percent spot-on but it’s all relative isn’t it, and the numbers I’ve recorded have been a fairly indicative route map of my journey.

The thing is, I’ve just never been sure how accurate the Shitbird really was. The scale in the Kingdom of Pain for example always seemed to weigh a good seven pounds more than mine.  The Asshole voice convinced me that was God of Pain’s dirty trick to make me work harder. The other thing is, it’s not unheard of for mine to offer me a range of 8 to 10lbs between the lowest and the highest number, depending on how long I keep it going and how many times I jump on and off.  So there’s no wonder it pushes my buttons, right?

Anyway, as I set off dribbling the scale around the bathroom like some kind of square glass football, it suddenly occurred to me that if I lifted the Shitbird thing into the bath, it might be a bit less volatile. For the love of God why didn’t I think about doing that before? It turns out I am officially a genius. For the first time ever, it doesn’t matter how much I nudge it up and down with my foot, it stares back at me with the same number over and over again because it’s on a completely flat base. I know! The only downside is the number is higher. By quite a lot.

I think I prefer the wonky number to be honest. Actually, I nearly had a fucking cardiac arrest when the Shitbird thing tried to tell me I’d gained 11lbs, especially since I already knew I’d lost weight this week.  That said, at least going forward if it’s consistent I get a number I can hang my hat on, right? Under the old weigh-day waltz system I’ve lost half a pound this week, not gained, and I’ve still lost the same amount overall. I was just heavier than I thought I was when I started in 2015, and I’m heavier now than I thought I was yesterday.

I’m quite impressed that I’m not freaking out actually. Half of me wanted to carry on with how I’ve always done it just to preserve the not-quite-as-shit-as-that number that I’ve been reporting against, but it’s only a number, right? My arse didn’t get smaller or bigger just because I weighed in the bath, I’ve just recalibrated and I’ve got more to go after that’s all. It’s no biggie, and it feels right that I bring out my dead so I can completely draw a line under everything that’s gone before.

I’ve got one week exactly before I hit Christmas, and I’m going to make it count. Shall we go for three off?  🙂

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Switching To Autopilot

So life’s all still a bit shit. I’d love to deliver you a positive and motivational Monday morning blog post, but the truth is I’m up one minute and down the next, and I haven’t really been overly focused on what’s going in my mouth. I’m desperately worried about my mum, who is home but still very unwell, so most of my energy has been directed towards her and her needs…assessments, risk assessments, care plans…you name it, I’ve been all over it and I’m doing everything I can to make sure she has enough support around her to give her a fighting chance of getting well.

We couldn’t even go visit her this weekend, because on top of everything else there’s a sickness bug doing the rounds in her residential home, so they’re locked down in quarantine, which hasn’t helped.

I left it until the last possible minute yesterday to step aboard HMS Shitbird. I was scared of what the damned thing was going to tell me so I did the whole ostrich thing and buried my head in the sand. I have a routine on a Sunday morning, you know? Get up, pee, weigh. Not yesterday. I got up, had a pee, ignored the Shitbird Scale and went to make coffee. Then I went for a swim without giving it a second thought.

I came home, did some shopping…walked past it twice as I was dotting washing around the house to dry, visited the bathroom several times through the course of the day and still refused to make eye contact. When I finally climbed the stairs to bed last night I couldn’t avoid it any longer…after all, I promised I would post my weight every week and it’s a cornerstone of my accountability. I was expecting a beasting to be honest, so just one quarter pound on was a relief.

I’m not even sure why I was expecting it to be so bad. I haven’t been really bad. I mean, I’ve had bad moments, for example on Saturday evening I won a big bag of chocolate orange segments in a pig-racing competition (not real pigs!) and let’s just say they didn’t go unappreciated. But, I opened them for everyone to enjoy whilst we were there, which was a much safer bet than me taking them home, right? I had my fair share but I didn’t have them all, in the chair on my own after I got home when nobody could see. And I enjoyed every last one of the ones I ate, along side my pie and pea supper.

I refused to feel guilty…it was just one night, and I needed to blow off steam with a bunch of friends. The week overall had been one big fucking trauma, so I wasn’t holding out hope that my conversation with the scale would buck the trend. But actually, if I really think about it, my eating wasn’t so bad.

I’d sort of kept a watching brief on what went in my mouth, even if it didn’t always make it into the food diary on MyFitnessPal. I made it to the pool five days out of seven. I wasn’t perfect but I kept control, after a fashion. All things considered, I’m claiming it as a victory. It’s fairly heartening to realise that I flicked the controls to autopilot because there was so much else going on, and the Asshole between my ears didn’t screw things up completely.

I’m not sure what this week will bring. I’m hoping mum will really turn the corner and I’ll get a decent night’s sleep without waking up every hour and wondering if she’s okay. I’m supposed to be going on holiday the weekend after next and I’d love to think she’ll be well enough by then for me to go ahead with the trip. It’s been a rough few months and I’m trying hard not to feel bad about saying I’m ready for the break, but I can’t remember the last time I needed one quite so much.

We’ll see. In the meantime, I graduated Sunday with a decent chunk of calories still on the table, so I’ve started the brand new shiny week as I mean to go on. I want to be back in the sixteen stones something next week…watch this space  🙂

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Trying It Without The Carrot

So my conversation with the Shitbird Scale yesterday provoked a miserable reaction from my face, which together with the rest of me had expected more. It gave up nothing, not a single fucking ounce. And I don’t know about you, but that feels really unfair when I’ve worked my cahoonies off to make a dink in the number of pounds I gained when I was busy being a dickhead.

Seriously, I’ve done an hour of swimming just about every day, not to mention all the physio and the walking I’ve managed to fit in. It feels like I’ve done nothing except work and work out over the last week, and I’ve stayed within my calorie limits, so there’s no wonder I feel like that foot-square piece of shitbird glass has stabbed me right in the back. I was actually expecting a fanfare and some sort of trophy for having the best week ever.

It could’ve gone two ways. You know me, setbacks on the scale have been known to send me hurtling straight to the hob-nobs. As recently as the end of July I posted a picture of my weigh-in where the number had gone in the wrong direction, and confidently declared that based on what I’ve eaten I don’t deserve this so I’m choosing to not let it mess with my head…yeah well look how well that worked out. Just about three weeks of anarchy followed because it totally messed with my head.

I’m very happy overall with the regime I’m following. I like the rhythm of counting calories now I’ve wrestled my head back into the game but I reckon I need to tinker around the edges of the numbers a bit because there’s a couple of things I’m not convinced about.

Firstly, I’m not convinced that My Fitness Pal is playing with a straight bat when it tells me I burn one thousand and ninety calories doing sixty minutes of swimming. I mean, that’s a lot, right? When I work out at the Kingdom of Pain, or I walk or get on my bike I know exactly how many calories I’m burning because the technology on my wrist updates MFP without any help from me. It just knows. And in an hour’s circuit training or boxing I generally burn somewhere around five hundred, which leaves me red-faced and half dead at the end of the session.

Swimming is different. It’s not an exact science, mainly because my watch isn’t waterproof, so I have to manually add my swimming activity from the MFP database. And much as it pains me, since I’m not in training for the next olympics I’m not convinced I can burn that many calories doing an hour of gentle breast stroke. I mean, old people overtake me as I’m pootling up and down the swim lanes dreaming about what I might scoff with the one thousand and ninety extra calories I’m racking up. Or not, as the case may be. I get out of the water feeling like I’ve worked, but I’m relaxed and nowhere near half dead.

I pottered about a bit on line yesterday and the consensus seems to be that it’s probably nearer six hundred calories an hour. Which is still awesome, but it’s not one thousand and ninety is it? So I’ve probably eaten a fair few ghost calories this week, which will almost certainly have contributed to my failure to move the needle.

Secondly, whilst I hesitate to go against God of Pain’s counsel, I’m thinking I might be better off setting my daily calorie allowance a little bit higher, but not eating the additional calories I’m earning from exercise. I’m nervous about taking away the carrot if I’m honest…the promise of earning a few thousand extra calories over the course of the week motivates me to put in the work because I know it means more food. I wonder if I’ll be able to maintain the same level of enthusiasm if I know it’s not going to result in extra portions..?

Time will tell I suppose. I’ve reset the numbers and I’m going to give it a go. There’s too much effort going into all this for me to just stand still, right?

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Just A Bit Too Cocky

I’ve had some lovely notes and messages relating to my knee surgery, which were much appreciated, thank you. It all went well, and I was home by mid-afternoon on the same day. It’s sore, but it’s not unbearable. I think I’ve been battered by the anaesthetic as much as anything, because in between all the knee exercises that the physiotherapist has given me to do I’m sleeping more than a middle-aged moggy. I guess that’ll wear off in a few days.

My friend came over yesterday evening and we decided to go see a movie – that was the point that I realised that perhaps I’d overestimated my ability to bounce back. Pottering around the house is one thing, but the car journey to the cinema was uncomfortable and although we parked right outside and didn’t really walk very far at all, by the time I got home last night I was exhausted. And my knee hurt. A lot. So no matter how bad the cabin fever gets, I won’t be doing that again any time soon.

The doctor raised an eyebrow at me on Friday when I said I was planning to go back to work in a couple of days…sometimes I can be a bit too cocky for my own good, you know? Lesson learned. I’ve assumed the position again with my leg elevated, where it will remain until the swelling goes down, and I guess I’ll be sending in that sick note after all.

I’ll tell you what though, just cast your mind back a couple of years. I couldn’t wait to lay back every weekend with my feet up in my big fat leather armchair and do nothing at all. Well, except feed my face. It’s almost worth being driven crazy with cabin fever as a reminder of how far I’ve come. That life doesn’t belong to me any more, which is why I reckon I’m finding the inactivity so hard.

These days, weekends are about getting out in the fresh air and walking with Charlie dog or setting off with a bunch of friends on my bike, not hunkering down with an armful of snacks and a steady stream of crappy TV. Hopefully it’ll only be a couple of weeks until I’m properly mobile again. I’m not sure how much more of the doggy death-stare I can take, for one thing.

My encounter with the Shitbird didn’t go too well yesterday. Again. I was in two minds whether to bother hopping aboard at all given that I’m wrapped from thigh to ankle in a massive padded bandage, but on the basis that I didn’t properly climb out of the sink hole until Friday, I figured bandage or no bandage I had to face the number. It wasn’t pretty, but I’m happy to report that the anarchy is over and I’m properly back up and running with my food plan.

Not before time. That twelve day fuck-up has put me back to what I weighed on 19th March. For fuck’s sake. Five months’ worth of effort wiped out in less than two weeks. Next time I’m in the mood to rebel I’m going to remind myself about that 🙂

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