Tag Archives: temptation

A Head Like Elvis

I imagine more than a few of you will be familiar with the self destruct button, right? You know that thing you press which immediately snatches defeat from the jaws of victory? Mine’s seen a bit of welly over the years, in fact the letters have worn off and it feels as smooth as a pebble washed a million times by the sea. It’s under my thumb right now, and it’s like I’ve got some weird kind of fat-girl twitch making me press it, over and over.

Why do I do it? Yesterday was bleurgh. I dodged a few things I shouldn’t have, ate salad for lunch but wobbled a bit in the afternoon (fucking refresher lollies ambushed me again at work, although I did count them) and then I went and ate a monster portion of chilli for tea which pushed me right over my calories. It’s all officially gone tits up, in fact my head is like Elvis…it’s left the building.

What I’m eating isn’t the only fuckery going on here. I’m sleep-dodging too. I sat up last night until eleven thirty or so before heading up to bed knowing I needed to write this post. No careful drafting it out and marinading it for a while before refining and making it just right…no no no. Not this girl, in this mood.

What I actually did was sit in the chair and binge watch ninety day fiancé all evening, even though it’s a pile of shite and I couldn’t give a damn about the stupid people in it and their badly scripted trials and tribulations. Maybe it’s because I imported my own car-crash fiancé years ago from over the pond and I’m fascinated watching other people’s disasters unfold in slow motion just like mine did.

That particular life disaster is buried in the archives somewhere for those of you fancy a good laugh, but whatever…I sat and watched five episodes back to back till I could hardly stay awake from sheer fucking boredom, when I should have been busy tipping the contents of my head onto the page and rearranging it all in the medium of words to help move me on a notch.

In the end it wasn’t far shy of 1am by the time I’d tipped up my word-count, and my alarm goes off at six. Five hours’ sleep plus change, to prepare me for a one hundred mile round trip commute and a job that’s wringing me out on a daily basis at the moment. Way to go to nourish my mind and body, right? I’m such a dickhead sometimes.

Mimi was so astute on Monday when she called me out on lining up an excuse ready to wheel out at the weekend as I try and justify three days of over-indulgence with my friends. She was absolutely bang on. I was doing that. I still am. I’m looking at the pictures and GIFs and Memes that we’re all sharing on WhatsApp as we get giddy about seeing each other and making cocktails and eating chocolate in the hot tub, and staying in pyjamas to watch movies.

I want to immerse myself in the full experience including drinking buckets of prosecco and eating my own bodyweight in inappropriate snacks. Same as everyone else. The trouble is, for them it’s a one-off, but me, well…I don’t know when to quit.

So, yeah. I can feel this fucking button under my thumb, but I’m wandering around in fat-girl fog and I’m not sure I can resist the urge to push it. Again.

I’m heading out Thursday afternoon and there’s no internet signal at Foxy Lodge so I won’t be able to post on Friday, although I’ll be back in time for the Shitbird Chronicles on Sunday.

I can’t wait for that one, I mean seriously just bloody shoot me now…




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The Wrong Number

It’s going to be one of those weeks, you know when you can just tell?

It didn’t start well. I practically speed-walked the twenty two steps from my bed to the bathroom for my Sunday morning weigh-in, and I could hardly wait to hop aboard. I had really high hopes this week, in fact I was already planning what words I might use to tell you how fabulous I felt at losing [insert impressive number here] pounds. I felt skinny.

Then the Shitbird thing declared a zero loss, and within a heartbeat I felt fat again, like someone behind me had sprung into action and was busy filling my pants with marshmallows. I went from hero to zero in the length of time it took the little digital display to get its shit together and show me the wrong number.

I don’t know what kind of voodoo fuckery is at play here. I’ve stayed within calories pretty much every day, I’ve been to the pool five times. I did the spin class for God’s sake. I’ve attended meetings at work where the free cookies went uneaten and I didn’t even begrudge walking away from them because I felt skinny, right up to the moment where my toe confidently nudged the Shitbird awake yesterday morning. The number it spat out threw shade over all my effort, and I had a massive strop.

And of course, look who’s woken up…the Asshole voice has been chirruping in my earhole ever since.

Look, Dee, your body’s obviously telling you that it needs a break, that’s why you’re not losing any weight. You’re going on holiday in just a few short days…why don’t you take your foot off the gas and give your body the break from dieting that it so clearly needs. You can start again when you get back, and I bet the weight will practically fall off of its own accord because you’ll be so rested and ready to give it everything you’ve got…

It’s so fucking hard not to be influenced by that voice especially when the words are falling onto such fertile ground. You have no idea how much I want to say fuck it and log out of My Fitness Pal without a backward glance. I want to stamp my foot like a stroppy child and head to the deli tomorrow instead of taking a carefully calorie-controlled lunch to work. More than that, I want to cruise around Italy next week drinking my own body weight in gin cocktails and sampling every fucking morsel of food that the army of chefs on board want to throw at me.

You’ve been through the mill Dee. You’ve lost Elsie and you’re still grieving. You’ve had surgery and you’ve had more than your fair share of stress with your mum being ill. If anybody ever deserved a break it’s you. You deserve this holiday. And it doesn’t even really count if your food plan goes a bit off the rails, I mean it’s not like you’re sitting in an armchair and having a binge, is it? You’d just be doing what normal people do on holiday which is eating a bit too much and drinking a bit too much. Just allow yourself that for God’s sake…

On Saturday, I went shopping for new shoes. I remember savouring the feeling of how easy it was to bend down and fasten the straps as I tried to decide which ones to buy, I mean less than two years ago I couldn’t even reach my feet. In the end, I bought three pairs of shoes and a bunch of other stuff, and I justified it all as a treat to myself for making it through a shit summer and keeping my head in the game.

And yet, not twenty four hours later that fucking scale tipped me headlong into a shitstorm by making me feel fat. I argued back and forth with my own head all day yesterday ’till in the end I was even boring myself.

It’s a rollercoaster isn’t it? Yesterday I stayed within calories, went for a good walk and I swam for an hour. Today I’m going to do the same. One foot in front of the other, and repeat, right?  I’m so excited about my forthcoming trip and I do deserve to go away and have a brilliant time. But I’m feeling wobbly, and the Asshole Voice is at his most persuasive.

I need to tread very carefully, that’s all.

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Nearer To Good Than Bad

Well, I’m in a much better frame of mind today, and to the blessed relief of everyone I’ve been driving round the bend, I’ve stopped being a muppet. It’s taken me a week to get my head around the fact that I’m not going to feel better straight away. I’ve also come to realise that not every twinge means it’s all gone wrong. It’s normal to have good days and bad days after surgery, right? Wednesday was the worst day, but yesterday was better.

Stressing about my food plan hasn’t been especially helpful. After my prolonged dalliance with the binge demons, getting back on track would have been hard enough in itself, but doing it in a week where enforced inactivity has ruled out any opportunity to boost my pitiful calorie quota…well. I’ve narrowly avoided eating my own fucking arm.

And I’m still obsessing about Daim cake. I mean, in my repertoire of go to foods it’s up there towards the top of the list anyway but for some reason my head has stalled at the crossroads where I choose to walk either towards it or away from it. So I’m still standing there having the same conversation. I shit you not, it’s like Groundhog Day.

The Asshole voice is lobbying hard.  Look, just go get it out of your system, then you can move on. I’m not going to quit reminding you how that buttery taste will melt on your tongue and make you feel better, and sooner or later you’re going to cave. You know it, and I know it. Why don’t you save us both the trouble and go buy the cake.

I thought it would be easier because I’m stuck in the house, you know? My ability to nip out to the shops has been severely compromised by my not being able to drive. I know better than to ask the fun police to bring me a Daim cake, and in any event he’s been working so I didn’t even try. I did think about calling a cab to the place that sells them, and I also considered doing a full on-line shop just so I could get some contraband delivered and eat it whilst there’s only me in the house. Thankfully I haven’t done any of those things.

But I’m still thinking about doing all of those things because my head is refusing to play nicely.

The thing is, I’m clinging on. My food plan has not been the stuff that skinny dreams are made of this week, and there’s been a couple of days where I’ve gone a bit over my calorie budget but the upshot is, I haven’t eaten Daim cake. Whether I’ve coloured inside the lines or not, it’s been nearer to good than bad and that’s something to celebrate. I doubt very much that the Shitbird Scale will award me a loss on Sunday but to be honest this non-scale victory matters far more. It’s been one hell of a battle.

I don’t think it’s over yet. But it will pass, eventually. The non-Asshole side of my brain knows that, and I’m riding out the storm 🙂

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Taking Care Of The Hairy Mary

Well, first of all I can’t start this blog post without a word of thanks to all of you who’ve taken the time to answer my questions and tell me what you think about the blog…I’m blown away by some of the feedback. I’m not even kidding, I was so moved by some of the lovely stuff you said I did the ugly cry more than once.

I think I might print hundreds of copies and wallpaper my house with it all so when I’m having a shit day your words can lift my mood. Thanks guys, I feel so incredibly lucky having y’all in my corner. And so far, the consensus is that a Break Out The Skinny Girl book might just have legs. If you haven’t had chance to look at the questions yet and you’d like to share your thoughts, you can find them HERE…last time of asking, I promise.

So anyway, this week was born with the potential to go a bit tits up. I’m working away from home which means two nights in a hotel, and quite a nice one as it turns out. I did as much research as I could before I got here so I knew a bunch of stuff, like the menu options for room service, and the fact that it had a pool. And hot on the heels of my holiday swimming, you don’t need me to tell you how excited I was about the pool.

Now, I’m not the only one from the company I work for who’s staying here, in fact there’s probably another eighty colleagues here for the next couple of days. Which means that I’m probably not the only one who’s clocked the leisure facilities. And yet, despite the fact that there’s a very real possibility that I might bump into someone I know from work – cringe – I brought my swimming costume anyway. In fact, I brought two.

Can you even begin to imagine me doing that a year ago? These guys are used to seeing me in a professional capacity, you know?  Dressed appropriately with my game face on, not wrapped in a scrap of Lycra with my wobbly bits on parade in the broad light of day.

Back in the day when I was crippled with horror at the size of my arse you couldn’t have paid me enough to doff off if there was even the tiniest possibility of bumping into someone I knew, especially someone I knew from work. Yesterday, when I arrived at the hotel after a three hour drive, I couldn’t wait to get into that pool, and beyond a cursory check to make sure there was no overspill from the hairy Mary on display I didn’t give a second thought to what if I bump into… I just got on with the business of enjoying the water.

As it turns out, I didn’t see a soul down at the pool…all our lot were all in the bar. And by the time I’d had my swim, and tamed my hair again (since the water had kinked every strand and left to its own devices I would’ve morphed into a Brillo pad) they’d all disappeared into the town for a few scoops, so it was a very sensible early night for me. 

I had a carefully chosen light supper courtesy of the room service menu, so I’m off to a good start. Today will be a challenge. Last time we had a retail conference I remember all the tables groaning under dishes of naughties to keep folk entertained as they sat through one presentation after another. I tried hard to say no but I couldn’t get the words out because I was too busy chewing. It didn’t go well.  I think I ‘fessed up told you about it at the time.

Anyway, this time will be different…no refined sugar, right? I shall liberate a couple of pieces of fruit from the breakfast buffet and if the Asshole voice tries to lead me down a dark alley to get mugged by a something sweet, I’ve got something to stuff into my face which doesn’t involve chocolate.

Sounds like a plan…watch this space ?


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I’ve Had Worse Weekends…

Did you have a good Easter? We had a lovely weekend away but I’ll tell you what, I’m so glad I’m off work for the rest of this week, I am knackered. I adore my mum, and it was so nice to spend some time together and make some memories, but she’s so frail these days I feel like I’ve been on pins for the whole time we were away, in case I broke her. We have laughed a lot, but it feels like the last four days have mainly involved me running around with a stressy on, trying to make sure that the right pills were dispensed at the right time, and that mum didn’t trip over the dog, or fall out of bed, or scald herself on the kettle.

And don’t even get me started on the nightly trauma of helping her up the stairs to bed, in a cottage housing the longest and steepest staircase I’ve ever seen, which required at least three rest stops on the way up, me following two or three steps behind mum with my shoulder wedged under her bum to try and provide a little support and forward momentum. Fortunately there was a downstairs loo, or we would have been royally buggered.

We did have one or two trips out to the beach, but mum tires really easily so to be honest we spent most of our time just curled up in front of the fire, in companionable silence you know? Mum with her feet up watching the snooker and me reading my book with Charlie snuggled up to one or the other of us on the sofa. I’ve definitely had worse weekends.

The people who owned the cottage had very kindly left us a bottle of wine in the fridge, and a big box of chocolates by way of a welcome, and you don’t need me to tell you that those fucking chocolates have nearly driven me to distraction. They sat squarely in the middle of the kitchen table, and they didn’t move all weekend, but boy did I ever know they were there.

Mum, having eaten the three little cellophane-wrapped cookies which had been part of the welcome provisions on the first night, put in a request for some more, and I’ve never been able to say no to my mum so we picked up a box of assorted biscuits to bring back to the cottage and they added their ten-penneth to the Asshole voice’s daily seduction routine…come on Dee, just have one…you know you want to…

By some miracle, I resisted. Don’t get me wrong, I wanted to face plant into all things wicked, but I knew if I started on either one of those things I wouldn’t be able to stop. So not starting was the only way to go really, you know? I did have a treat on Easter Saturday, in the shape of the biggest fish you ever did see, encased in crisp golden batter and smothered with salt and vinegar from a chip shop in Filey. Holy fuck it was orgasmic.  I used my weekly points and vaporised it without one iota of guilt, and that made up for not starting on the chocolates. Well, almost. The chocolates were Milk Tray. Not my favourite. If they’d left us a big box of Black Magic we might have been having a different conversation.

Here’s the thing though…it’s weigh-day today. And last night I slept easy in my bed because I knew I’d done my absolute best. There was no pacing the floor or wringing of hands at the prospect of my conversation with the Shitbird Scale…I mean yes, okay I always feel like I’m walking the green mile when it’s time to step aboard, but I knew my input had been bang on the money. I wasn’t worried.

And did you see..? Four pounds off. Four! I’m going to struggle not to punch the air with every second step today, I’ve never lost four pounds in a week before! It was a best of one situation…that was my very first reading and I whipped out my phone, took the picture and had that Shitbird Scale back in it’s corner before it had a chance to change its mind. No second or third of fourth hop-on for me this week, even though it’s usually the third or fourth go that gives me the best number. I’ll take the first reading thank you, it’s the only one I need 🙂


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