Hi guys! Feel free to ignore this post, I just wanted to complain for a while. I am sure I shall delete it later!
1. I HATE SLUGS! I have tried so many things to get rid of the little blighters. Everything I can find that doesn't hurt pets. In fact I caught 40 last night in the rain. Despite that, this morning my LAST seedling I planted out was bitten off at the base.
I have more, but I don't see any point planting them out. They have all gone. I have worked so hard on this garden, and, blah! Plus I feel totally guilty for killing slugs.
2. I HATE NEGATIVE EQUITY! Our home is likely to be in negative equity in fairly short order. Not much to say about that, really, a bit sad as I have always worked so hard with money. I am sure many EPers are in the same boat.
3. I DON'T WANT TO GO ON VACATION! I know, I know, my wallet's too small for all my 50s and all that! But we booked our 3 week trip to the States a long time ago, to get cheaper tickets. Now...I have a lot of stuff going on here, and really can't even spare any money at all to use on vacation because circumstances have changed. We are meant to go in 2 weeks...all my OH's family know we are coming...I am dreading it, absolutely dreading it.
4. MY CATS WON'T GET ON! Fighting, fighting, fighting, and they are both miserable. I am actually thinking of giving away my sweet Ruby to a new home.
5. ZITS! I have adult acne. Most chemicals set it off, so I could control it pretty well except, as a redhead, I need sunscreen every day. Even with a doctor, I couldn't find one that didn't set it off. But I did get one prescription that worked and I had perfectly clear skin last week. For four days. Now we are back to normal. Hopes dashed!
Anyway, none of those are massive, that is what writing this has shown me! In the grand scheme of things, you know? It isn't world hunger, is it?
Rach x
ETA: Can't believe I forgot this one! 6. I AM HAVING A PLOUGHMAN'S FOR LUNCH TODAY AND I FORGOT TO BUY THE BLEEPING BRANSTON'S! Errr...that might not mean much to those who aren't British.
That was the amazing insight I had the other day. Clever, huh?
Why, you might ask, did it not occur to me before? I've only had about 14 months and 45 pounds to come to this staggering realisation.
I think it hadn't occurred to me because the overwhelming majority of my friends had never mentioned anything about my weight loss (not to my face, anyway).
I had kept pretty quiet about it myself. Well, I didn't want anyone actually acknowledging I used to be even bigger than this.
Until recently, that is.
Last weekend, at a lunch party, the subject of weight and fitness came up. The conversation ran on, and on, and on, and I kept thinking, 'Actually, I have a lot of things to contribute to this discussion.'
I mean, guys, a lot of what people were saying was just cr*p, if you'll excuse my language. In my opinion, at least.
I kept thinking, 'Most of these people, while they may be slimmer than me, have been trying to lose weight without success. I have lost weight, so it is OK at least to offer an opinion.'
But you know what another part of me was thinking...yep...'I am still fat. There is no way they are going to take me seriously.'
In the end, I took a deep breath and did make my contribution.
I couldn't just leave it at that, though. They might have thought, 'What does she know?' . Eeek. So I ended up justifying myself. To everyone. 'I have lost 45 pounds.' Plus the inevitable addition - 'Of course, I still have a lot more to lose'.
Pathetic, really. Who even cares if they judge me or not?
Then it got a bit weird. Once the shameful words were out there, I just couldn't shut up about My Amazing Weight Loss. Over the next few days, it seemed like every other thing I said started with the words 'When I lost 45 pounds...'. (This one time, at band camp...)
I actually started to feel quite proud of what I had achieved. I wanted people to know I had lost weight. And I wanted to share. That awful word (pretty horrifying for most Brits, anyway). I did, though. I wanted to let people know about my experiences, to show the world I wasn't ashamed of who I was or where I had been.
I may have carried it a little far.
I even talked about it in front of people I knew were struggling with their weight. What if I was offending them or upsetting them? But I just couldn't make my mouth Stop Talking.
At one point, I was chatting to a girl from my husband's work. She is overweight and has been since I have known her, and she was talking about how much she eats sometimes. She just seemed so down on herself, so in a fit of solidarity I found myself saying, 'Oh, yeah, when I was heavier I used to eat two family packs of Minstrels (that's about a pound of chocolate candy) every night'.
I didn't get the reaction I expected. This woman just stopped stock still and stared at me, and for a second or two this completely blank look spread over her features. It was like she had no idea how to process that information.
Then she just carried on talking, as though I had never made the comment.
I panicked. I thought, 'Oh God, she is judging me. Here I am trying to be all open and honest, here I am trying to make a connection, and she just can't associate herself with me at all. I am just too gross, I look gross, everything about me is gross and the things I do are so gross they are beyond her comprehension. Even though I have just sat and watched her pick her way through an entire block of blue cheese.'
That shut me up about my weight pretty quickly. It was a good job. I was getting boring.
I went home and got really depressed. Half a pie's worth of depressed.
Then I got angry. As I shovelled down my treacle tart straight from the packet, I muttered to myself:
'Who am I trying to kid? I have socialised with the same people all through my weight loss. They already know I have lost weight. There is one reason and one reason only they aren't mentioning it. It is because they don't want to admit I was - horror of horrors - obscenely fat before.'
Then I realised I must look completely nuts, ranting away to myself, spraying crumbs all over the couch.
Then I ate the other half of the pie.
After throwing all my toys out of the crib (and the sticky cushions off the sofa), I felt a little better.
Perhaps I wasn't really being judged after all. Perhaps the main reason I was so upset was that no-one, during my recent foray into the world of self-publicity, had actually said, 'Dammit, girl, you have done so well.' I mean, just one 'Lady, you are a total legend' would have been enough. Maybe. In fact, no-one had showed any reaction at all.
I wanted to think it was because my weight was not of the slightest importance to my friends, compared to my Stellar Personality.
More realistically, I suspected it was down to the fact they all already knew my 'big secret'. Possibly they were jealous. Perhaps they just all thought I still looked huge.
Or maybe they just didn't give a flying monkeys about any of it (as this blog entry grows ever longer, I am beginning to feel that way myself).
The important thing, though, was that none of this really mattered. I wasn't doing this for anyone else. What mattered was how I felt about myself. The way I presented myself in public was a reflection of that. I had just gone out and talked all about myself for more than 30 seconds at a time - so I must be feeling pretty good.
Definitely cause for celebration.
OK, so maybe I had thrown myself into my new, fat and, dammit, proud persona a little quickly.
That's not so bad, though. It is good to be open about things. It might actually help someone, one day. It might make someone else who feels as cr*p as I did when I was eating that pie feel just a tiny bit better because they aren't so alone.
As long as I am not being belligerent about it, as long as I am not insisting my way is the only right way to lose weight (I can still think it if I want ), as long as I know When To Shut Up, I am allowed to speak up. I am not so repulsive I have to hide behind baggy clothes, or keep silent, or even stay at home. I like myself enough that I don't have to apologise for existing any more.
I know there are risks to this approach. I might offend someone who feels stuck in their habits. I might feel - or really be - judged and rejected.
But that's not really my problem.
In the end I might play a tiny, tiny part in changing the way people who overeat are viewed - and feel - in our society.
That has got to be worth it. Better than pie, anyway.
And I do rather like talking about myself. Even if no one else gives a monkeys .
My goals for June? Simply to do better than last month!
That might sound really negative, but actually it is not.
Before January, I did very little with my time. I was recovering from very serious depression and had done pretty much nowt for about a year - excluding seven months of dieting and exercise.
In January, I was determined to be 'perfect'. And I got to the end of January and, would you believe it, I had done virtually nothing .
I was so, so down. Then I thought about January, and realised I had done more during that month than during any other time in the past year. It wasn't perfection - but it was progress.
Since then, I still haven't managed to reach the activity levels of a 'normal' person, but what I have managed to do is make progress each month. By the end of May, I was working about half the time a 'regular' person would work. That is really good for someone who did nothing for so long!
So in June I just want to keep making progress. I want to get the important things done. And I want to reach June 20th (when I go away for a few weeks) weighing less than 11 stone 11.75lb, my lowest weight to date, and having made at least 2 weeks' progress on my C25K. And hopefully having done a decent number of abs and upper body sessions.
That's it! Anything else will be a bonus!
OK, now for a rant.
I went clothes shopping this weekend. It was a pretty miserable experience overall.
1. I don't like most of the clothes in the shops at the minute. There were only three things I actually loved. Of these, I didn't buy two, because they were a bag and a pair of shoes and they just didn't go with anything else I have. I am not on a budget where multiple bags or pairs of flip-flops are an option, so that was a deal-breaker for me.
2. I knew the clothes would fall apart after one wash anyway. Yes, clothes used to be more expensive. Yes, fashions stayed static for longer. But we still spent less overall, and we didn't look like we dressed in dishrags. Bring back clothes that last!
3. Most of the clothes do not suit me. I have 32FF boobs. So I suffer from a couple of issues. *Loose, flowing tops make me look pregnant. *Tops fitted round the bust make me look good - but none of the tops actually fit me round the bust. So I pick up all these tops I like - but they either have 'cups' to them, or have a smocked, bandeau-style thing going on, or they have a seam under where the boobs are meant to go.
Meant to go. My boobs are just too big to go in them. They either squeeze out at the top - so I look like a hooker - or the bottom, so I look, well, crap. The rest of the shirt doesn't fit right because the boobs won't go in it - usually it flares out so I look like a supersized lampshade. A floral, ruffled supersized lampshade.
This is a problem even if I get the biggest size, which of course doesn't fit the rest of me, because...
4. ...the rest of me is a size 8 (US 4). Yes, this is an interesting fact I learned during this shopping trip. I mean, how ridiculous can you get? I weigh 165.7 pounds (11 stone 11.75lb). I am 5 feet 6 inches tall. I am overweight. I do have a small build, so my clothes size has always been smaller than people guess, but size 8???
I knew UK clothes sizes had changed. I had accepted I was a size 12 (US 8) top now, even though I thought that was ridiculous with my weight.
But I guess some stores have changed their sizing AGAIN for the summer...no doubt to make us all feel better, basically.
Because I went into River Island, selected four shirts in size 12...and when I got into the changing room, they hung off me. I looked like a kid trying on my mom's wardrobe.
So I went back and got a 10 (US 6). No go...
Yep, the 8 (US 4) looked pretty perfect (boobs spilling out of the top, but not enough to make me look like I was soliciting. Just hopeful ).
So I bought it. Beggars can't be choosers .
And then I went to other shops. In Next, I couldn't buy anything, because their smallest size was actually too big for me. Even the store size guide seemed to be lying.
Ahh, I remember the good old days. The days I could go into any shop and just buy something without trying it on, because I knew the size that would fit (*dreams*).
I was so mad! I want to be a size 8 because I am a size 8, not because someone thought 'let's make all these women feel slim'! I want to be a size 8 who doesn't have great swathes of fat visible in her vest top.
This rather begged the question of what crazy size I would be when I got to goal. And it definitely took away my sense of achievement from losing so many sizes already. I knew sizes had changed, but I was thinking of it as something that had happened over a 20 or 30 year period. I didn't associate it with myself. I was delighted to be a smaller size than I was in high school, even though I was heavier. That is the benefit of regular exercise, right?
Well no. I went home and checked. I pulled out a gorgeous sweater I had when I was 17. The only piece of clothing I still have from that time. It is from the same store - River Island - but a size 14 (US 10). And guess what? It didn't fit. It went on, but it was so tight I could barely breathe. So that means, at a guess, at least a four inch difference in their sizing in 10 years. Probably six inches.
The only store that doesn't seem to be doing it is Topshop, haunt of fashionable teenagers all over England (and me, once upon a wonderful time ).
Now, I have struggled with the concept that Topshop no longer defines me in fashion.
It has been a gradual realisation.
First, it was the fact I looked at least five years older (and wider) than anyone else in there, with their baby faces and their non-existent hips...and their mums waiting patiently behind them to pay .
Second, it was the fact I was unaccountably starting to prefer the styles in Dorothy Perkins, home during my teenage years to old ladies buying The World's Frumpiest Clothes. It took me a long time to realise the styles hadn't changed. I had.
Now, finally, it is the sizes. Because while every other store seems to have got more generous, it seems to me Topshop are actually making their clothes smaller. This doesn't mean all the fresh-faced babies don't fit into their size 4s (US 0). They still do. But it does mean I end up in the (communal) changing room, face going redder and redder as I hold in my breath (and everything else) and try to force up the (cheap) zipper on a pair of size 16 (US 12) skinny jeans, and somehow squeeze my love handles into the fake pockets, while infants buying their bikinis look on wide-eyed (it is probably the scariest thing they ever saw), and a sulky yet supermodelesque 12-year-old shop assistant comments 'err...you might want to try a bigger size' (subtext: before you break that zipper, because we will charge).
THERE ISN'T A BIGGER SIZE, YOU TWIT! 16 is as good as it gets! (Naturally, I don't actually say that. No, I go even redder, pull on my Dorothy Perkins bootcuts and scuttle out of the changing room with my head down. Waiting for the sniggers as the same shop assistant asks me, surely against all logic, 'Those any good for you today?')
I have actually given up trying on Topshop jeans. These days, feeling like an impostor, I tend to head straight past the racks of tiny clothes and on to the shoes. And even those are starting to look disturbingly...well...modern.
Anyway, I think it is the same sizing snobbery that applies in River Island and Next, only this time in reverse. While other stores pander to women who can't seem to control their expanding waistlines, Topshop caters to the market of younger girls - girls who have grown up knowing appearance is the most important thing in the world. Girls who have grown up on diets, who have made a habit of eating enough to keep them just on the unhospitalised side of skeletal. Girls with a charge card for their 20 pairs of flip-flops.
Yes, Topshop sizes, I posit, are small to make sure the girls who don't manage to subsist on three lettuce leaves a day can't buy anything.
OK, OK, so I am feeling bitter and jealous.
And on that note, I had better go. I clearly don't enjoy the high street experience. I would stick to internet shopping from now on...but I wouldn't have a clue what size to buy .
Ok...so this is about supermarkets again. They seem to be a recurring theme in my blogs lately. Funny, as I generally despise going to them .
Anyway, I have two supermarkets I shop at regularly - Asda (a Wal-Mart subsidiary), where I do my weekly shop, and Morrison's, slightly more expensive but closer, where I go for anything I have forgotten/run out of.
We had to pop to Morrison's the other day. We just needed a couple of staple items, but I found the whole experience really tough. Because that store was fuuuuull of good stuff. Good stuff I wanted to pile up in my trolley. Good stuff that would blow my budget and my diet. (I do love two for the price of one on self-sabotage).
Anyway...the bakery just smelled gorgeous (whether or not the smell came from an aerosol can). The chocolate and caramel slices were to die for. That Batchelor's pasta and sauce in a packet was on 4 for £1. 4 for £1! And Morrison's, apparently, has just been awared the coveted title of Pasta Retailer of the Year (the corruption, cheating and backstabbing involved in that contest have to be seen to be believed). Actually, I swear there must be about 15 similar polls. If not, someone is lying, because I am fairly sure Asda makes the same claim.
There is actually a truly profound point to this. I wanted to say I love Morrison's fresh tomato and mascarpone pasta sauce .
By the time we left the store, I was drooling. And I still had to make it past the magazine kiosk, home of beautiful, glossy trashy magazines I couldn't afford and would feel guilty for reading.
After all that, you might think the fact I managed to leave with nothing but a bottle of milk and some aubergines would have made me happy. Proud, even.
But no, I was profoundly depressed, and not at all convinced that Nothing Tasted As Good As Slim Felt. Because Ben & Jerry's Phish Food tasted pretty darned good the last time I tried it.
As we were leaving, it occurred to me I pretty much always feel this way when I shop at Morrison's. When I am in Asda, on the other hand, I am rarely tormented by such cravings and usually manage to make it through my shop with equanimity.
So why is this?
Naturally, I decided Morrison's food must simply be Nicer.
But it isn't really.
So maybe they just have unusual stuff I don't get the chance to have that much.
Err...like pasta sauce?
Ok, ok, well it could be because I usually shop there in the evening - I am tired, my list is in my head and not on paper, I am buying stuff I know I am going to eat almost immediately (it is so much easier to plan for a Lentil and Cabbage Pie when you know you don't have to eat it for five days).
None of those reasons were really strong enough to explain my Morrison's conundrum.
Then it hit me. I used to shop at Morrison's all the time. We changed to Asda because it was cheaper. When did we switch? About a month after we started our healthy eating regime.
Morrison's was where I used to shop when I was unhealthy. When I shopped once a day instead of once a week. When I used to leave my hugely stressful job, drive to the store and pick up something quick for dinner (interestingly, usually fresh pasta), and then add something to cheer myself up (usually chocolate and caramel slices), and then think 'sod it, I am exhausted, I will start tomorrow' and chuck in some fresh white cheese bread and a celeb magazine to help me calm down.
By the time we moved our weekly shop to Asda, on the other hand, we were sticking to a budget, a weekly shopping session and a list comprising wholegrains, lean meat, fruit and veg and low fat dairy. In Asda, I had never, ever had the experience of buying anything quick or unhealthy or ridiculously expensive.
And cue...a eureka moment!
So much in our lifestyles is about habit. When we begin a new healthy habit, we have to practice it over and over again so it gradually becomes easier, and eventually second nature.
Carrying this further, it makes sense we could associate different places with the different habits we have practised in them.
I associate Morrison's with using food to self-medicate for my anxiety. I have learned to find other methods of coping in most of my life. But that doesn't mean I am not still stressed out most of the time. So when I visit Morrison's, my brain goes 'Aha! I know this place! The Hallowed Yellow Temple of Chocolate! Legs...atten-SHUN! Lead me to the caramel slices!'
The more I think about it, the more I realise this phenomenon is present in other areas of my life. I find it incredibly hard to stick to healthy habits when I visit my parents. It isn't that they are plying me with lard, it is that I find the urge to snack and snack almost impossible to resist. The last time I lived in that house, I was a teenager. I used to snack and snack and snack all the time, and I had the thighs to prove it.
Now I have had this *amazing* insight, I have to decide how to deal with it.
I could just avoid Morrison's from now on.
But, knowledge is power, so now I think I have the strength to cope, to tackle my mid-week shops with the same poise and confidence with which I wisely guide my trusty trolley round Asda .
I am now envisioning myself leaping boldly down the cake aisle, croissants and cream cakes and chocolate and caramel slices flying at me left right and centre, beating them off boldly and with flair, using only a couple of French sticks (brown, of course).
I would need an outfit for it, definitely.
Suggestions on a postcard, please...
Rach xxx
P.S. I stand corrected. Asda is NOT claiming to be 'Pasta Retailer of the Year.' They are 'Fresh Pasta Retailer of the Year'. That's all right, then.
It finally happened. I have been proven...wait for it...wrong.
I am not sure my view of the world will ever recover .
You see, ladies and gents, the other day I witnessed something I had believed I would never see.
A Gillian McKeith Family.
Now, I am not sure if dear Dr Gillian has made it across the Atlantic.
If not...hmm...how should I describe her?
Well, in the most diplomatic terms, I shall say she is a diminutive yet surprisingly scary Scottish nutritionist who searches out Britain's unhealthiest families, proceeds to put the fear of God into them about what their habits are doing to them, and then sees them back to health (or eight weeks of it, anyway) with a strict macrobiotic diet. All on national telly.
'You Are What You Eat', the show is called. And it drives me mad.
I will leave aside my concerns about the merits/sustainability/cost implications of Dr Gillian's remedies, at least for the time being.
My main issue with her show has always been those families.
I used to watch in disbelief as Gillian made her latest unsuspecting victims keep a food diary, then piled up on a table exactly what they had eaten in the last week.
'Noooo,' I would scream at the television (classic telly-screaming fodder, is 'You Are What You Eat'). 'Dammit, no, no, no', I would insist as the camera panned slowly across acres of chips, cakes, chocolate, crisps, cheese, curry, Chinese (we all know most of the unhealthy foods begin with 'c'). Not to mention full-sugar Coke, economy white bread with lashings of lard and brown sauce, 40 pints of cider, a few pasties, half a dozen cheeseburgers (extra mayo, lettuce removed), and a couple of deep-fried pizzas.
With nary a fruit or veg portion to be seen.
I hated it. Because THOSE.FAMILIES.JUST.DO.NOT.EXIST. No-one, and I repeat no-one, eats that badly.
And I was very confident in my opinions. Because I weighed 15 stone. And I ate badly. And my habits had never, ever approached that.
I admit, I did eat all that junk. But I (note the smug tone here) ate it in addition to my regular meals. And so I was getting my nutrients .
My husband disagreed with me. I didn't understand why. He must know by now I am always right. But he would always say, 'You are giving people too much credit. You have seen the entire aisle of frozen chips in Asda. You know people buy that stuff.'
'Well then, how come I've never seen them?' I would counter triumphantly, brandishing my well-worn trump card with pride.
And so we continued, pretty much every Tuesday night during each series run. Yes, I lead an exciting existence.
And then it actually happened. This Sunday, at Asda, I finally came face to face (or rather, trolley to trolley) with a real, bona fide Gillian McKeith Family.
I am not talking about people with your averagely unhealthy trolley. That is me too, from time to time. No, I am talking about an entire weekly shop consisting of literally nothing but complete rubbish.
I didn't actually mind being proven wrong. Because I was so excited. I felt like a naturalist who, after years of fruitless toil, finally stumbles upon the only existing specimen of some...interesting beetly thing everyone thought had been extinct for a hundred years.
I mean, a real Gillian McKeith family! Right behind me in the checkout queue! Where I could stare at them for ten full minutes while the cashier attempted to find a barcode on my chicken! I could barely resist the urge to point at them and shout 'There! There!', but managed to settle instead for whispering and gesticulating frantically to my hubby.
This will show you, straight off, that I wasn't regarding this family with the sort of attitude of human brotherhood that would do me credit. I have to admit it. I was acting like a snobby cow. Because I was just too fascinated. Plus, I had just spent an hour in Asda on a wet Bank Holiday Sunday. I was pissed off.
Anyway...behind me in the queue were a mother and two daughters, aged about 15 and 10. They were all significantly overweight. In their trolley were white bread, sausages, two meat feast pizzas, four ready meal curries, streaky bacon, a bag of frozen chips, chocolate ice cream, strawberry ice cream, a family pack of chocolate cookies, a large bar of Dairy Milk chocolate, a bottle of full-sugar Coke and the chocolate bars the daughters had selected from beside the checkout. There was not one single piece of fruit or veg, fresh or otherwise, on that conveyor belt.
So apart from the fact that I have a memory which would make me a prime contestant for the Generation Game (if not the ability to build a working bridge out of spaghetti and old socks), what have we learned from this?
You might well say to me, 'What's your problem? They are entitled to eat what they like.'
And you would be right. But what did it for me was the single tub of Weight Watchers ice cream balanced precariously on top of the whole greasy, pre-packaged heap. Because what that meant to me was that at least one member of this family was unhappy with their health. And addressing it in precisely the way guaranteed to make sure nothing changed.
And then I just got furious. I looked at those daughters. They were such pretty girls (see, I told you I was being judgemental and non-PC and all that. It isn't going to end anytime soon).
These girls just looked so bad. They had obviously taken care with their appearance, but they were busting out of their fashionable clothes. They couldn't manage to wait in line without leaning on the checkout, let alone run around with their friends. Their skin had such an unhealthy pallor you could have been forgiven for thinking they were actually ill.
And I just looked at their mom and thought, 'I can understand you doing this to yourself. But it is almost criminal that you are doing this to those poor children.'
In this day and age, no-one can claim not to know growing kids need some fruit and veg. Could she not even have bought a carton of fruit juice?
I know unhealthy food is usually cheaper in the UK. But she was buying the more expensive brands. Those girls didn't even ask their mum if they could have the chocolate from the counter. They just picked it up - implying either that it is a regular 'treat', or they knew she just wasn't going to say anything.
I ended up driving home feeling really sad. I couldn't stop thinking about it.
I am well aware I have the wrong attitude. I could have the wrong end of the stick. I don't know that family from Adam. I have no clue as to their situation, their motivations, their desires. I have no right to pass judgement.
Especially when I have so many things I need to work on in my own life.
The private lives of others are really none of my business. And yet, the whole experience just made me really upset. And judgemental .
And that is that, really! Yep, no profound insights. No interesting things I can take from this and apply to my own life. Just a good, old-fashioned, comfortable conviction of personal superiority. Which, after all, is what these kinds of diet shows are all about, right?
So I'll just grab my Pringles and settle down for the next episode...
So, I promised to write about where I am at the end of Year 1, in more concrete terms.
Well, overall I am delighted with my progress this year.
The health of my diet has seriously improved. I could count on my ten fingers the number of times I have eaten any added sugar this year. So it should be reducing my average for all the other years to about the level of Dawn French in the Vicar of Dibley. Excellent.
I could count on one hand the number of times I have had any caffeine. Good job. It turns me into a monster.
I have probably eaten red meat ten times at the most.
Almost all my carbs are now wholegrain, I eat protein and carbs at every meal, I drink almost exclusively water, I eat piles of fruit and veg of all colours - most of the time.
I get plenty of good fats. I don't add salt. I eat enough beans to provide an alternative gas source for the entire planet.
On the other hand...my mayo addiction continues unabated. It is light mayo...but I am not sure that counts when you get through half a jar in a meal. Well, maybe not quite that much. Perhaps a third of a jar .
And for those of you who already know about it, my long-running war with cheese is still in its messy stages.
If I had to estimate the amount of cheese I ate over the past year, I would put it somewhere near this:
Well, maybe slightly more than that .
In fitness, I have gone from couch potato struggling to climb one flight of stairs in the car park to regular gym bunny. Home gym bunny, anyway. Aerobics, walking, weights, not to mention being generally much more active with housework and gardening and just getting out and about more as my depression abates. I have even started back running. Ok, it is far from my teenaged six mile extravaganzas, but I have reached the end of Week 2 of C25K and I am loving it.
So...goals for the next few months?
Well, as we all know, sticking with the same food and fitness regimes for long is a surefire recipe for boredom and stagnation. I have done my fair share of coasting over the past year, but I always have better moods and better results if I am pushing myself.
So....food. I want to keep pushing up the nutritional value and balance of what I eat. There is still a lot of room for improvement. I love the taste of healthy foods, and I love the way I feel when I eat them. But change takes time...so expect me to keep forging ahead with this, setting mini goals and smashing my way through them. Well, half-heartedly bashing at them from time to time, anyway.
My biggest goal...to stop bingeing for good. Or at least for the vast, vast majority of the time. I had a binge the other day. It was completely pointless. I went to a friend's house for lunch and there were no carbs. I could have asked for some bread...but no, instead I waited till I got home, stressed from being out all day, and ravenous, and headachey...and completely fiending for some ice cream. Sugary ice cream. Which I proceeded to eat...with some apple crumble I had made for my hubbby without using Splenda. And left in the fridge in full view.
Ladies and gents, you would think I would know better than that, by now, wouldn't you?
And then, of course, I started thinking (never a good idea if you are me). 'Well, I have overeaten now. I am going to be up on the scale whatever. And if I stop now, what is to stop me doing this again tomorrow...so (logic circuits firing well here), I will have a massive blowout, and then tomorrow I will start again, being extra strict.'
You know, I think those words 'start again' are the most dangerous words in existence to anyone who is working on changing their life.
Because there is no 'start again'. There is just life. You are never going to feel happy and whole if you plan to spend time behaving in a way that goes against who you are, and then pretend it never happened, it didn't count.
Anyway, I didn't enjoy overeating. I wasn't hungry and I didn't need anything else from that food, that I hadn't learned - torturously - to get from other ways of relaxing and taking care of myself.
Of course, I did just wake up and take it in my stride. I got right back on track with my normal eating the next day. Because those days of super-lows after overeating, leading to a three day binge fest, are behind me.
But when I got ready for my run, and saw my swollen tummy in the mirror, it hit me.
I have let myself down. I have harmed myself. And why? Because I DON'T NEED THIS ANYMORE. I used to need it. But now, I am just making excuses. I am just scared to try something new.
So my new plan? I am not going to turn around and say 'I shall never overeat again.' The stress that would bring would only lead me faster to a fall that was inevitable anyway.
I can overeat, if it comes down to it. But I don't want to binge unless I really can't stop myself. An extra 300 calories? Fine. An extra 3000? Why do it?
Of course, I don't want the extra 300 calories to become a regular thing. So I am going to have to trust myself to make appropriate decisions as I go along - rather than trying to stick to a plan I made three weeks ago, when I had no idea what today would be like.
Finally, fitness. I am delighted with how far I have come. But this is the year I plan to become super-fit. Of course, I may become injured. I may have a baby. I leave that in God's hands. But my current plan is to keep going with what I enjoy. Because I no longer exercise just to look better.
So...running - I am planning to get my 5K time below 30 minutes, and then enter a 5K run. And then a 10K. And then a half-marathon. I am taking my running from the treadmill to the streets, with my hubby.
And I am getting out of the living room and into the free gym at my husband's work for some proper weight-training.
The outdoor hiking I want to continue, walking the coast path.
I want to get my ass in a swimming pool for the first time in two and a half years!
And, in the name of all that is good, I am finally going to learn to do one sodding push-up, darnit!
So that is my plan! Stick with me as I work on it - no doubt with many small setbacks and...even smaller triumphs. But they add up, they add up.
About as mushy as a blog can get...with bad language ; )
How would you react if your husband bought you a set of bathroom scales?
For your anniversary?
'Thought you would like these to help you get back in shape, darling.'
Not looking good on the romance front in our house tonight, then .
Actually, my husband didn't buy me the scales. I bought them for myself.
And the anniversary?
Two days ago marked one year since I started this incredible weight loss journey - a journey back to health and back to life.
I remember very clearly the day I started. Suffering from binge eating disorder, and already overweight to begin with, I had gained 5 stone (70lb) in under 18 months. A fact I had been managing to deny to myself with at least moderate success, until I went to the wedding of my dear friend Erica. A few days later, I saw the wedding photos - the same day I hit 15 stone (210lb).
I had been in therapy for anxiety disorder and depression for a few months. I had already put in a lot of the groundwork on learning about myself needed for me to start to rebuild my life.
Despite this, I was at rock bottom. It was all very well to talk about rebuilding my life, but there didn't seem to be many raw materials left to sift from the wreckage. My world had become hemmed in by my horrific anxiety, shrinking and shrinking until it encompassed only my couch, comforter, pyjamas, tv set and, of course, a lifetime's supply of family-sized chocolate bars.
And now I bloody well weighed 15 stone.
That very day I went to see my therapist (OK, OK, was forced to go by my husband). The second I got through the door, I burst into tears. 'I have no idea what to do,' I bawled. 'But I cannot carry on like this. I have to start losing weight. Now.'
My therapist just sat and looked at me for a while. I figured she was wondering what the heck she was going to do with me. Then she told me - the only time I think she ever told me directly to do something - to go home and stop counting calories, Points, carbs, whatever. I was to eat whatever I wanted, for one week. The only rules? No added sugar, caffeine, alcohol or cigarettes. Those things just had too extreme an effect on my binges and my moods. She also ensured I was supplied with a hefty package of drugs to see my through my more nutty moments .
My husband collected me from her office, and what with my being barely functional at the time (except for an almost uncanny ability to weigh up the respective merits of various chocolate brands), we didn't have anything in the house for dinner.
I ended up standing stock still in the middle of a supermarket aisle, in a confused mess. I just had no clue what to buy. Because I had no earthly idea where I was going to go from here.
My entire life, for the past 13 years, had involved one diet or another. These plans had provided my main structure, every single day. Sure, I hadn't stuck to them. In fact, all I had done was double my weight. But perversely, even breaking diets had given some sort of structure and order to my life - after all, I was doing it every day. Once I had gone off plan, I could have an evening of relaxation and enjoyment, and start trying to sort out my life again tomorrow. I never actually followed through with any of my plans, but I believed I would - so I got through.
And now someone was telling me I had to give up that structure. I mean, 'stop dieting'? How was I going to do that?
And even if I did, I had no confidence it would work. I had no real hope anything was going to work, ever. For the first time in my over-planned, under-lived existence, I had no image of the future in my mind by which to navigate.
And yet I couldn't go back, either. I had got to the end of the road in that direction. It was turn around...or what? Lose everything.
So somehow, in my over-medicated haze, I managed to buy something and make it home, and I just started doing what my therapist said. At least for today.
And it was actually OK to stick to. Easier than a diet, anyway.
In a few days I was a little happier, a little more hopeful - and a little lighter. So I just kept going.
The lack of stimulants meant I wasn't even really hungry any more. I was feeling full, in a way I never had even with 6000 calories in my stomach.
Pretty soon I felt slightly more confident, so I started adding more guidelines to live by. Week by week I added fruits and veggies, healthy fish, good fats, wholegrains, greens...and yes, in the end I even began doing OK at counting calories. And limiting them rather than just counting them go up and up .
I kept going, and with many breaks and fluctuations, I lost 45lb in one year.
I would have liked to lose more. Why didn't I? Well, I am not going to lie. From Day One of meeting my small goals, through my first sweat-soaked 10-minute stumble round the block (you couldn't call it a walk), the first half-completed aerobics session, the first run...all the way through to seeing that 45lb lost on the scale, there have been so many small successes and triumphs and delights - achievements so satisfying they were as important to me as fitting into smaller clothes.
But it has also been bloody hard. In fact, had I known just how torturous it was going to be when I started, I would probably have stayed on the couch with the Ben & Jerry's.
I don't say that lightly. When every tiny thing in life is a reason to panic, doing, well, anything at all is a huge challenge. There have been so many times I have thought 'I can't do this', so many unplanned, unwanted binges, followed by hours of torturing myself with 'what-ifs'.
But it has been worth the agony of every time I forced myself to put down the chocolate and take a risk at doing something else - something scarier, but infinitely better. Something altogether more filling.
As the pounds have dropped off, my world has become bigger again, little by little. I have learned to enjoy life and even relish the world's incessant challenges - and my mistakes. I have gained confidence that I can live in the world, and thrive in the world, not as I think I want it to be, but as it really is. I just have to take it a little at a time.
I have to say I am still kind of mad at my therapist. When she sat and looked at me for so long that day, she wasn't trying to work out what to do with me. She had known exactly what I needed, from the first time she ever met me. She knew a 'diet' would be impossible for me to stick to, and in any case had nothing to offer me for the long-term. She knew I needed to take things in little steps. She knew that was the way I would cope, would learn, would carve out my own way of living again.
But she wouldn't actually go ahead and tell me this, would she? No, I had to blummin well learn it for myself. Ptttth.
So after that unashamedly soppy blog, where am I at the end of Year 1?
In fact, wow, I have just noted the length and general incoherence of this post. I think the rest will have to wait!
I particularly hate sales calls that come when I am in the middle of my workout.
I mean, I am likely enough to talk myself into stopping halfway through my run all by myself. Why do other people have to start doing it for me as well?
It is like when you are out and you feel forced to 'blow your diet' with food you don't even like.
For example, I happen to loathe whipped cream (amazingly enough).
So surely if it is served to me at a dinner party, the calories shouldn't count?
Get onto it, please, Universe.
Anyway, this particular interruption was to my C25K, and it was a call from British Gas.
The woman sounded suspiciously chirpy.
'Is this a sales call?' I asked warily.
'We just wanted to chat to you about some offers and discounts available to you as a valued customer.'
'Errrr...I am a valued customer? So how come your company didn't reply to my last three emails complaining about my gas service?' (yeah, I was in an assy mood).
'Oh, well, Madam' (when did they stop calling me Miss?), 'I wouldn't know about gas. This is about offers for our electricity customers.'
'Errrr...you don't provide our electricity.'
'Well no, you have to sign up first'.
'So what part of this is not a sales call?'
I will grudgingly concede it wasn't the woman's fault. She was just following her script.
So after that minor interruption, I got back to my C25K, but of course that horrible, sabotaging little (little?) perfectionist part of me was saying 'this isn't a proper workout. If you stopped in the middle, you didn't really do the run properly.'
Ah well.
It was only Week 2 Day 1 .
And it had taken me three weeks to get there.
And I can't really blame British Gas for that, can I?
Although I do wish they would hurry up and sort out my bill.
Well, hello there ladies and gents. Long time no see! I have to say you are all looking mighty, mighty fine this morning .
So where shall I begin?
Probably with a mighty long post in my usual tradition.
Perhaps I shall start by admitting I myself am not looking mighty fine at the minute.
I was getting along OK on my 28 day plan. The first week went, not perfectly, but rather well - I was definitely proud.
Week 2 faltered at the weekend, when something happened I have chosen to call a 'setback'.
MY SCALES BROKE! AAAAARRRRGGGGGHHHH!
On Saturday morning I stepped onto them as usual, but instead of my lovely, magic number popping up, I heard a mighty crunching sound (how many times am I going to fit the word mighty into this blog, exactly? I must have it on the brain).
Anyway, since that moment, the scales have stubbornly refused to log any weight other than 8 stone 10 (122lb) or 6 stone 9 (93lb).
After the first minute of jumping up and down yelling at my OH 'I have done it! I have made it to goal! And beyoooooond!' (he was still sleeping, incidentally), I was completely gutted.
Those scales have been my close companion for the past eight years. They have been my trusted tool almost every single day during that weight-obsessed time, never protesting when the 8 stone 19-year-old eventually almost doubled the weight she burdened them with, then uncomplainingly helping her stay on track as she started to lose the lard. That small ritual - climbing on, holding my breath as I watch the numbers tremble and then finally settle - has been instrumental in setting my morning mood...every 24 hours, for the past 2920 days.
And now they are gone. My babies. And to add insult to injury, I had just spent £3 on a new battery.
You would think they could have made it to 3000 days. That would probably have got me to goal.
My husband, usually a god of DIY, was unable to work out what was wrong. His tentative diagnosis? 'Perhaps you were using them too much.'
I was really upset. I don't want to buy new scales at the moment - every penny of our income is otherwise accounted for. And more than that, the new scales wouldn't be the same. They would be bound to read a few pounds differently from my old scales, my better scales. So with all this work, a whole year's worth of work, I WILL NEVER KNOW IF I REALLY GOT TO GOAL *cue major histrionics*.
However, always one to look on the bright side (yeah, right ), I managed to find a silver lining to this cloud, one which actually buoyed me through the first few days of loss.
I can set my own weight.
Yes, every morning, I can now consider my mood, and decide what I weigh for the day.
8 stone 2, it was on Monday (that's 114lb). A bit too skinny, really. I had to fatten myself up with some chocolate...
Yesterday, my mental calibrator told me I weighed a mighty (!) 3000 pounds. Yes, I had broken the Guinness World Record (TM) for the largest person ever. I was delighted. I decided to ring the papers.
Well no, I didn't. I decided to eat an entire Domino's large pizza...because Heaven forbid that someone take my record away from me before I have made some cash out of it.
So you see my problem? Whatever I guess I weigh, it becomes a convenient excuse to munch something.
The real reason? I don't have to face up to that pizza converted into tomorrow's scale reading.
Ok, ok...I had better finish this blog with something vaguely positive.
I suppose one good thing to come out of this is that I have realised those scales aren't really all that important to me any more (sorry, babies).
If this had happened a few years ago, it would genuinely have been a reason for a complete meltdown. I wouldn't have known how to function without knowing exactly where I was on my own particular scale of good, ok and just completely useless and pointless and unworthy as a person - how to cope without the unique interaction between the physical scale and my own mental barometer of self-worth, so vital to my everyday existence.
Over the past year, I have come to believe I have some value other than that which I award myself after seeing the day's number. I have learned not to start each day by deciding how crap I am, or that I am OK for once, but bound to mess it up somehow.
I have learned it won't be the worst thing in the world if my final goal is a couple of pounds either side of where I originally planned. I have learned not to let the scale set my mood for the day.
Now I just have to learn actually to eat on plan without it...
So today, my Mental Weight (mental, indeed ) shall be 9 stone 9 (135lb). Perhaps if I imagine I am at goal, I will start practising eating the way I need to for the rest of my life.
Alternatively, I could gird my loins (can women even do that?) and aim for the mighty 4000 pound mark. There must be some scales I could use. Or a weighbridge...in fact...there is a weighbridge...it is conveniently located just past Domino's.
See you tomorrow, when I shall be wearing my Fat Pants .
Thanks for all your comments! I took the advice given by some of you and I am back with a newly anonymised blog.
I haven't gone through all the posts yet to remove any identifying features, nor have I found some nice piccies to replace the scary silhouette woman, but here I am nonetheless!
Will write more later. Lots of love and God Bless, R xxx
Errr...that might not mean much to those who aren't British.
), as long as I know When To Shut Up, I am allowed to speak up. I am not so repulsive I have to hide behind baggy clothes, or keep silent, or even stay at home. I like myself enough that I don't have to apologise for existing any more.
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).
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