MppffffmeeOWWWW

That, dear Reader, is the noise of a cat escaping from a bag.

I have news; glad tidings, in fact. I am affianced, betrothed, intended.

This startling turn of affairs occurred at the weekend in Devon but I had a couple of friends who read my blog that I had to tell in person. That is now done – just one of my best friends to tell (scheduled for Thursday).

In a fit of Victoriana, I almost fainted when bf asked me to marry him. I went so white, he held on to me as he thought I was going to pass out! I then (romantically) sputtered:

“WHAT?”
“Yes!”
“WHAT?”

Then after 15 mins, I made him propose all over again, just to be sure. He did say he'd text it to me so I could check it as I wished - but nothing so far.

I spent the weekend stupefied, stunned, shocked. He had (wisely) not chosen a ring but the very first jewellers we visited on Wednesday (a funny little place that clearly still thinks it’s the 1920s) had – not what I’d thought of , but nonetheless the perfect ring for us. (Except for the price maybe! Bf nobly didn’t wince and indeed pressed me to have it over a much cheaper one that I also liked (not as much admittedly) and would have been quite happy with.) It is an antique Art Deco ring with a square sapphire of quite incredible blue, surrounded by extremely sparkly diamonds. And I didn’t think I cared for diamonds particularly! I care for these, very much!

I had stopped imagining this day, it hurt too much to think it would never come. But when I did, I imagined that I would feel more secure but not that it would make me feel so loved-up, so determined to cherish what we have and indeed cherish him. I will be an Aged Bride as we think it will be October/November 2012 when we actually marry but I will manage this (and not with Botox. Although....)

I know you will understand, dear Reader, that I am glad that he didn’t propose at my slimmest (although not glad that I have to get to that weight and indeed get slimmer than slimmest) as I would have linked those two things inextricably and used it as a stick to beat myself. Now, I have to – at my geriatric snail’s pace – get to a size 12-14 I think to be happy in a wedding dress. And I have to get there by next year and keep it there for the following year. Just as well SoD granted me a 2lb loss this week (call it an engagement present!) 3lbs if you count it from Monday when I’d put on a lb after the weekend. It’s very confusing. Still, I think it’s a grand total of 4lbs this month which is distinctly not stellar. I’m going to need this long engagement just to get into a dress without looking like the flipping marquee.

But this weekend is about Naughty R’s wedding. In traditional female wedding guest fashion I have:
· Outfit that feels slightly too tight
· Shoes that are too high for comfort (or, er, walking or standing)
· Something borrowed (thanks Beth!)

And my shiny new (to me) engagement ring to admire in the sunshine (hoping for sunshine! And not just for me I hasten to add)

My jacket has cap sleeves. WHO ever thought that cap sleeves would flatter anyone? Except Michelle Obama – and look how much media coverage she got simply out of being able to look good in cap sleeves. The jacket also has a peplum thing though which is good. I would say that hopefully people will look at my arse not my bingo wings except I don’t hope that at all. I’m sure all eyes will be on the bride and I’ll be able to sneak my bingo wings past all scrutiny, largely (ho ho) un-noticed.

Got to dash, mwah, mwah.

Thy SoD is a jealous and vengeful SoD

Or mine is anyway, hope thine is otherwise. And my SoD (Scales of Doom) is particularly heavy on the vengefulness. Or is it me who is heavy? Well, after last week's frankly piss-poor WI (either half a pound on or off - the SoD couldn't really be bothered to say either way), I had hoped for a bumper week this week. But when I WI on Friday - either I lost 1 single solitary lb (if I put on a half lb last week) or I lost 1/2 lb (if I lost 1/2 lb last week). Either way, well, really. It's not on. I am pretty much busting a gut here. And so I want to, er, bust a gut. And of course, I WI this morning to see the damage put on over the weekend and it's 1lb. Which wouldn't be so bad if it didn't equate to 2 weeks hard work to lose it!

Weekend was lovely (more on that next week probably) - gorgeous weather, surroundings and company. Actually did talk to bf about the gastric bypass - he's really not keen. He said that he loved me as I am (which is nice!) and it would amount to putting myself through alot purely for vanity's sake - and that he thought it would make me very unhappy if I couldn't eat properly ever again. He also pointed out that I'm pretty keen on being healthy in so many ways and that this would be the antithesis of that. It's a good argument - of course, he doesn't realise just how unhappy I am at this size (he may love me as I am - but I don't) so it's not quite vanity, more mental health I think. But I do think I owe it to both of us to exhaust just about everything else first. Including plodding on at 0.5lbs a week.

Hugh Fearnley-Whittingsall's restaurant was disappointing though - an offal lot of offal. And what I had (offal-free) was fine - perfectly pleasant - but not amazing. It didn't touch Jamie Oliver's Fifteen (although as personalities I much prefer H's TV persona - there are only so many times you can hear the word 'nice' in one cookery programme without longing for at least one other choice of adjective).

One disturbing thing I noticed though is that if bf and I have broadly similar meals, I will get hungry again much more quickly than him. My specialist tells me - and I believe this - that my metabolism is basically flat as a wafer-thin pancake. But wouldn't that mean I got less hungry? My scientific knowledge is poor so this may be wrong. Either way though, it's confounding and frustrating. It also makes me feel like a greedy pig when I'm desparate for a snack and bf is still full.

More dash than flash

In haste, I dash this off before I dash off to catch a train. I have already missed one train – to miss any more might expose me to comment on the platform. I love Oscar Wilde.... I’m at a sort of all day meeting tomorrow (always problematic on the food front) and off to Devon for the weekend (including that trip to Hugh Fearnley Wittingsall’s restaurant).

So, progress thus far this week. Food = pretty good, B+ (always room to do better). Exercise = B (not going to manage much on Thursday (work) or Friday (travelling) but cycled on Monday and Tuesday and did some weights in the gym this morning (not at all sure it was a worthwhile endeavour...)).

And teeny-tiny triumphs – wore chocolate lingerie set (the colour, not the ambrosial food substance 'cos that would be messy) yesterday and it did not cause me pain all day! Unlike my shoes now – ow – but not putting that down to podgy feet! Am a bit squeezed into summer skirt today (cue the clouds descending and it suddenly going grey and windy – and no, I have no jacket) but in one nonetheless. I am choosing to ignore a panic buying session to the shops at lunchtime when I could not get into either skirt I selected as a smarter choice for tomorrow than what I have packed. Yikes! I have a new boss to impress who is very old school and I suspect I am not smart enough. Ah well, nothing I can do now... Except worry....

So the weekend has some eating in store for me (ahem! maybe an overstatement but I will do my best, brownie's honour) but also a long walk on Saturday. I’m looking forward to it so much anyway. I will consult the ever censorious SoD before I go off on Friday – I’m owed a benign reading, I think you’ll agree.

D.I.V.O.R.C.E

It’s over between us. I gave it a good go but it’s just been too much to bear – it was a one-way relationship and I was putting all the effort in. Yep, me and running are through. The big split came on Sunday, when I’d heaved myself out of my bed far earlier than I’d wanted, to embark on Week 4, Run 1. Now, I was already unhappy with the jumps in the programme (from 90 secs running to 3 mins last week), well, get this: Week 4 was run for 3 mins, walk for 90 secs then run for 5 mins, walk for 2mins, 30 secs (and then do it all again – yay(NOT)). I did it – just. And I did not get a runners high, I hated every long, long second of it. And I was dreading week 5 all the way– just checked and it moves up through the week from 5 mins, to 8 mins to 20 MINS RUNNING! It would kill me – probably quite literally. So I’m stopping the whole sorry business. I feel bad, in fact I feel like a big, fat loser (and not in the weight loss way, sadly) to have failed at this. If I were enjoying it OR the weight was dropping off, I’d keep going (although there’s no way I’d be able to run for 20 mins straight next week) but I don’t and it doesn’t.

My alternative plan is to go to the fitness room in the basement of our flats and work on the weights machines for 20 mins or so – and then, if I have enough time, walk in in my MBTs. Everything I’m reading at the moment seems to say that building muscle speeds up metabolism – and as my specialist has attested, I have an abnormally sluggish metabolism (or what Claire calls arseybodyitis!) and need all the help I can get in this department. Interestingly, there was a (opinion column) piece in the Observer saying that MBTs do work (http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2010/may/16/polly-vernon-what-i-bought-this-week-mbts) – can’t say I’ve noticed much “sculpting, toning, lifting and separating’ but I’m prepared to keep plugging away. Maybe my legs and arse are more of a challenge than Polly Vernon’s! In fact, I’m sure of it.

I’ve been very good over the weekend – yes, I’ve had a couple of treats but I’ve really balanced that with very sensible, low-cal choices. My main course on Saturday came with a pile of chips that I promptly off-loaded onto my 17 year old stepson’s plate, leaving myself a maximum of 12. He was groaning with his head on the table when he’d eaten (not quite all of it) and only temporarily perked up to scoff a brownie with ice cream before slumping again. And I have not had so much as a tiny glass of wine all weekend which I guess helps.

Going back to my specialist, I saw him last week. He’s still keen that I have a gastric bypass. I don’t fancy it one little bit. Given that he reckons that Lighter Life has suppressed my metabolism virtually out of existence, I couldn’t see that eating the same calories because of an op could be any better. He said that people who had the op generally lost most of their interest in food; I said that I suspected this is because they kept throwing up every time they tried to eat which would tend to put one off rather. He said that actually it seemed to affect ghrelins (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ghrelin) and was impressed I knew what this meant. I’ve said I’ll see this other operation specialist – IF he contacts me which he’s not got a good track record on - but I have to say I am really, really not keen. Of course, I’m not keen on staying fat either. It really does seem to be a choice between the devil and the deep, blue sea. The specialist has promised that in the time the op would take to come up, he’d continue to look for new drugs which might help but wasn’t able to offer any more hope than that – thin hope indeed. Ho ho.

Oh, for SoD's sake...

You may remember that I waged war on Scales of Doom after their – frankly - poor pronouncement last week. I suppose I realised that I may have been biting off more than I can chew, that I was David against Goliath or (for Lesley) Sheffield Wednesday against Chelsea. SoD hammered this point home this morning when I, bleary eyed after not enough sleep and tired after a week of early starts to get all this exercise in, nervously consulted it. It couldn’t quite decide whether I had lost or gained a measly half a pound. To lose half a pound with all that exercise (3 runs, 3 cycle rides, people!) is depressingly pathetic, to GAIN half a pound is pathetically depressing. In the end, SoD got sick of my sodding about, jumping on and off it, and told me that I’d gained a pound and a half. Chastened, I returned SoD to its lair and worked on ignoring its threatened 1.5lbs gain.

Annoyingly, I was pretty confident that I would have good news to report this morning – I’d even started formulating the post in my head! It seems that all that exercise has passed SoD by (but it does appear to remember the scone). But I resisted more scones the next day AND Krispy Kremes – should that automatically remove lard from my personage? In my head when I do this, there are clacker style boards - like the old-style train announcement boards - taking ounces off me.

And stupidly, even masochistically given my ego-bashing at the hands of the phantom wedding outfit, I tried on lots of my summer skirts yesterday as I removed them from deep storage (optimistically) to cram them into my wardrobe. The good news is that I might be able to squeeze into 4 – the minimum I need for work – the bad news is that several things that were a little tight a month ago, and that I was therefore hoping would be okay now, weren’t. In fact, there was no discernable difference. So it seems that I am not losing inches either.

Just to reassure you after your lovely comments to my last but one post (The Long and Whinging Road) that this does not mean I’m giving up. Oh no, this a battle unto death. I don’t even think that’s an exaggeration. I’m never going to stop trying to be slimmer. Sometimes I take some time to lick my wounds (and, er, the odd chocolate bar) but I always come back – bloody, beaten but unbowed.

Of course, I do feel that after – what? – 3 odd years of really putting my back into this, that I should be at the battling to maintain stage (and I don’t underestimate that that’s a whole new offensive in the war against flab) and not fighting to get down to and beyond my lowest weight over that period - or even my post LL weight (currently 2 st, 3 lbs heavier than my lightest weight which was the summer before last).

Realistically I’m only going to manage a max of 3 runs and 2 cycle rides in next week as I’m not at work on Friday. So stick that in your pipe, SoD, and smoke it. Brave words but I know I'll be quaking again - still feel it owes me though!

Btw, LOVE the image of Curlygirl giving the Debenhams cubicle a good kicking (comments on The Long and Whinging Road) – don’t mess with the redheads, people!

The story of P (aka stupid girl)

WARNING: extreme introspection ahead.

I've been thinking about this on my cycle home. I feel I need to get it down; I've rushed in - haven't changed, eaten or showered. I need to write this - I'm not sure why or why it's significant but I feel that somehow, somewhere there's a clue in there that might help me.

When I was a teenager I was very pretty - in a particular way. I had the sort of curves that can only look good if reined in by youth, a fortunate metabolism and/or extreme deprivation (ie the sort that can't last!). I had had a miserable time from 11-15 and reinvented myself when I started at a boys school, that took just a few girls, when I was 16. I'd lost my remaining puppy fat and I guess had hit my peak. I had the sort of prettiness that consisted of jailbait curves combined with absurd innocence, ditsiness and compliance - even docility - it's an irresistable combination to many men. I suddenly saw myself reflected in the admiration in boys' eyes and I felt good about myself for the first time - my father had always told me I was stupid, worthless and ugly (except for a brief period at 16 when he took me out with his work mates to wine bars, held my hand and bought me clothes that he confided that he couldn't buy for my mother because she was too overweight). At school were other males - ones who told me I had the best legs in school (there were only about 30 girls I hasten to add and I was by no means the prettiest - or even in the top 3), that I was gorgeous, pretty, lovely etc. I was eager to please, eager, if I'm honest, to keep that buzz I got from admiration (although there were a few times it was frightening too). I ate next to nothing, feeling almost powerful in shedding the pretty normal chubbiness I had had. I took no exercise other than frolicking half-heartedly and prettily with a badminton racket occasionally when I had to do games at school.

The boy I really liked - typically - didn't want to go out with me; we were friends as I tried hard to get him to like me. He told me that he was afraid that he would hurt me, that he had a nasty temper. I wasn't afraid although I probably should have been. I went out with someone who pushed hard for it and then cheated on me, in front of me and then wept until I forgave him. I was hopeless at saying no. I didn't want to risk that novelty of being liked and admired. I was quite revoltingly passive. There were boys at uni who I let hold my hand, even kiss me - although I didn't kiss them back - even though by then I had a boyfriend who I really liked. Still, the combination of wanting to be liked, and reveling in the effect I had on men, was seductive. It was a horrible way to behave.

I had no real personality - now I would say that I am a woman of strong opinions and convictions, some people find me witty (not bf sadly - he looks at me with a mixture of bemusement and uncomprehension when I tell a story that has them roaring at work), I would even say I'm quite spiky. Actually, there were signs of the spikiness even then: I remember the only other girl in my history class fixing the teacher with her poutiest, most limpid-eyed expression (she was a very pretty girl), fiddling pointedly with the button at her cleavage and lisping prettily "Was Xerxes sexy Mr A_?" and me snapping "Oh yes, because we're bound to get that as an A level question. Was Xerxes sexy? Discuss with reference to the Ionian Revolt, considering the archaeological and contemporary source information to illustrate your answer". The teacher told me reprovingly that I was "waspish" and referred to me in those terms for the rest of the year.

And one of my friends now, interestingly enough - I hope she'll forgive me for saying this - was the opposite of me. She tells me she was overweight in her teenage years - her relationships with boys were more equal, they were friends too; she concentrated on pleasing herself as well as others. She has skills now from having those friendships that mean she can thrash most men at pool or at arcade games - and she can hold her own in any conversation about anything. She developed her personality, rather than concentrating on being pleasing. Now she's slim AND she has all the personality that made her attractive anyway - seriously, if I leave her anywhere for a moment now, some bloke will hit on her. Not that she usually realises! Good for her though.

And now I wonder if where I am now, how I am now, is some kind of divine (or otherwise) retribution for that silly, shallow girl I used to be. I remember finding a classmate's cardigan which was slung down, showing a size 18 label, and being horrified that anyone could allow themselves to get so big. Serves me right really to have been that size - still am that size sometimes. And what have I learnt? I don't want to be the vapid creature I once was but after everything, if I had to trade what I am now to be as pretty as I was then, I'd still do it in a heartbeat. How's that for shallow and stupid?

The long and whinging road

In my ‘real’ life, I find it very difficult to talk about things that upset me. I literally choke on the words. I am a very archetypal buttoned up, repressed, stiff-upper-lipped Brit. I find it so much easier to ‘talk’ on here. Sometimes I worry that if I moan on here, no-one will read it and – worse – that they’ll be rolling their eyes at my tedious self-indulgence. But I’ve decided that not even I can be so absurdly people-pleasing that I deny myself the relief of unburdening myself here – metaphorically unbuttoning and letting my flab hang out, if you will. Don’t worry, I won’t leave you with that image! But I apologise, dear Reader, if this is just too damn irritating for words.

Are there any occasions more mentally torturous than a real rub-your-nose-in-it shopping session? Last night I went to look for an outfit for Naughty R’s wedding in case I either a) couldn’t squeeze into the outfit I had in mind and/or b) it was so bloody freezing that a short sleeved jacket would essentially be committing suicide by hypothermia. I can’t really afford anything new but I did feel that a boost from feeling that I looked good in a new frock would be the sort of lift I need right now.

Well, you know what they say about best laid plans? Something about them going awry for mice and men apparently. And women too, it would seem. I tried on 7 dresses in John Lewis and 3 in Debenhams. I can honestly say that I looked absolutely ghastly in every single one. Most of them were too tight to do up, a couple got wedged around my hips. And that was in a size 18. I usually wear a 16 but am clearly kidding myself. And it followed a ghastly day too – it was the cherry AND the icing on that particular poisoned cupcake. Shouldn’t shopping be fun?

It was utterly, utterly soul-destroying; I wanted to cry – and then eat chocolate and then cry a bit more, repeat, ad lib to fade... I ended up by saying “Well, let’s go and eat – you can do that at any size”. And that sums it up.

It really – brutally – rammed home, rubbed my nose in it, that I am a fat bird. It doesn’t matter that I am two stone lighter than my heaviest weight (and sadly, 2 stone heavier than my lightest – felt every ounce of that), it doesn’t matter how much running and cycling and walking I do or how many salads I eat or how many times I don’t have the chocolate or the cake or the sweets or whatever it is, I am fat, fat, fat. And my (lack of) progress means that I might never be anything else, no matter how hard I try.

Of decompression

It’s always one step forward and two back, isn’t it? Or maybe that’s just how it feels. After accepting that my jeans were just too baggy to be actually comfortable, I swopped for the rather tighter smaller pair. Even the physical discomfort of that was somehow rather pleasing though – a constant reminder that I was making progress I guess. Then I bought (from ebay) two more pairs by the same designer, a wide legged pair and another pair of bootcuts with different pocket detailing – and neither of them fit. The wide legged ones would – were I to lie on the bed and heave them together (assuming I have the strength for that) – cut me in half I suspect. It’s depressing; I clearly am not a size smaller in jeans after all.

And I’ve begun re-introducing my lingerie. The nude set fit and was fine, buoyed up by this, I tried the cream set. OW – I think I lasted about 7-8 hours before the cutting in became just too painful to bear. I tried the chocolate set yesterday and again, the welts left on the side of my boobs meant that I didn’t dare risk proper lingerie again today for fear of cutting off my own blood supply (decompression #1). Which would presumably turn my boobs blue and cause them to drop off. Which I guess would mean a weight loss for sure on my next encounter with Scales of Doom but made me realise that I didn’t want a loss at any price. I’m back in my crappy (slightly fraying), ugly M&S bra and non-matching knickers today, sigh.

In fact, SoD had jolly well better give me a positive report this week. I ran on Sunday, cycled yesterday and today - first time this year that I’ve done this on two consecutive days – I am wondering if the point that my nether regions palpably decompress after a thorough cycling squishing will be more delayed the more frequently I cycle (decompression #2)! I am also planning on running tomorrow and Friday and cycling on Thursday. No wonder I feel so tired. Except when I get to bed and then I can’t sleep – or I have nightmares. All the more annoying when I could easily sleep on my desk right now.

Sunday saw revised plans which didn’t include a cream tea (good) or a long walk (bad). Although trying to chose a healthy lunch was still nigh on impossible when the choice was cheesy paninis, goats cheese tart with roast potatoes or jacket potatoes (bearing in mind I try to keep carbs to a minimum and low GI carbs to an almost never). I had a bowl of rather lack lustre tomato soup which came with a hunk of granary bread which I did eat with butter and ¾ piece of ginger cake with lemon icing – nowhere near as good as mine. I do like to know the menu in advance so I don’t panic, freak out and choose something daft. I probably should have had the spud, never mind that it’s super high GI. Oh, I don’t know. The cake was a waste of calories, that I do know.

I’m extra glad I dragged myself out to run that morning though. I nearly freaked out when podcast-guy calmly said the running schedule included a 3 min interval – I mean, last week was 90 secs, isn’t that a rather big jump? I managed it but the second (and final) 3 mins was definitely a triumph of mind over matter. Week 4 is filling me with fear already – I don’t know if I’m better off not knowing what’s coming. Hang on....FREAK OUT – IT’S 5 MINS NEXT WEEK. Argghhhh. I don’t know if I can do that, I really don’t. And if he starts by saying (again) that it’s an easy progression, I may have to kill someone. If the run doesn’t finish me off first of course.

EDIT:
Gaaah - I refer you to one step forward, two back comment above. Was feeling smug that I resisted Krispy Kremes yesterday (don't actually like them but that wouldn't stop me eating them), but just ate TWO (very, very small) scones with cream and jam. Think the fact that I forewent 2 Ryvitas with extra low fat Laughing Cow cheese and a Muller Lite probably doesn't actually even up the calorie stakes.

Tom 'Peridot' Kitten

I have been avoiding trying on my proposed wedding outfit in the manner of an emu with my head buried in the blissful sand of ignorance. But with the wedding in 3 weeks, I had to bite that calorie-free bullet and get on with it. And what better day to do it than today, dressed as I was in my smaller jeans (tight but conveniently I could both breathe and sit - just not at the same time) and my proper lingerie (which I've had to remove under the guise of doing a wash as it was becoming too painful).

Now, the good news or the bad? The good news is that both the skirt and jacket did up. But the bad news is that it wasn't pretty. Like Tom Kitten, I am afraid that my buttons will ricochet from the fabric, probably blacking the eye of the beautiful bride with my kind of luck (and - it has to be said - with Naughty R's propensity to end up in A&E after a few drinks!). Can I lose sufficient weight/inches in 3 weeks to ensure I look okay (I don't set my sights too high!) rather than an over stuffed sausage? Especially since said 3 weeks includes a trip to Devon to Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall's restaurant (bf's birthday present) where the place we're staying celebrates its breakfasts including pancakes? Good sense (something I am as short of as I am on inches (except horizontally of course)) would suggest that I ought to invest in a back up outfit - just in case. But what a joyless experience, buying something that cannot look good - a waste of time, effort and emotional energy. It takes me back to the bad old days where my dress style could only be described as damage limitation. Actually, perhaps it still is...

I was terribly pleased with myself yesterday; bf and I went to Carluccios after auditioning a cocktail bar for my rapidly approaching 40th birthday party. I badly wanted the penne with deep fried spinach balls (and courgette but you've already spotted the danger signs here, right? And courgette is nowhere near those signs). I was feeling a bit squiffy - unpleasantly so - after two cocktails and nothing settles the stomach like a dose of quick release carbs. But, dear Reader, I chose the antipasti plate of salads and cold meat - AND I ate only a quarter of the piece of bread (admittedly the bread was the size of one of those irritating cutsie novelty pillows). Can you see my halo shine from there? Except, damnit, I'd already imbibed all the calories I'd saved! How true it is that the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Or at least the road to having to be firelifted out of your house because you're too heavy for the paramedics to manoeuvre. Okay, breathe....

So, with Tom Kitten firmly in mind (and it really won't look as cute on me), I finish work tomorrow at 9am and will be out of the door like a flash. Ish. A slow, wheezy flash maybe. To attempt Week 3, Run 1 (eeeeek!). Then a walk. And next week I'm hoping to cycle three times and run another two times.

Which is just as well as I've just had a glass and a half of red wine to accompany bf's utterly sublime stilton souffle. Actually, only the cheese was questionable - my portion will have had 2 eggs and 2oz stilton - with just a little green salad to accompany. Although the walk tomorrow commences in a teashop (Rupert Brooke's favourite no less) which is never an occasion for calorie free nourishment.....

SoD off!

I fear that the Scales of Doom and I will never be friends. How can an inanimate object give such grief and angst – how can it be so malevolent? Yes, we had an encounter this morning. I can say, hand on heart, that I busted a gut this week. Or rather I can’t say that because I actually only lost 1.5lbs. Now look people, I’m not doing this for the good of my health you know. No, really, I’m not. It’s all about the aesthetics for me. If that makes me as shallow as a puddle, so be it – I can live with that as long as I live slimly. I want to wear jeans and dresses without feeling awful and looking worse. Is that too much to ask? I mean, SoD, really?!

It didn’t make me very fleet of foot trudging round Week 2, Run 3 this morning either. I really don’t like running. With cycling, even if I don’t lose the weight, I feel like I’ve achieved something (like getting into work for free and not wedged into someone’s armpit), with running, if I’m not dropping the ballast, I’m not feeling the love. Humph. I’ll try to finish the nine weeks but if I’m not a size 10 by then, running and I are THROUGH, man. I’m joking of course. But only about the size 10 bit!

Can I manage to up the exercise for next week? I feel tired just thinking about it. Could I manage 3 runs and 3 cycles? And we’re doing some walking on Sunday. Well, I think I’ll give it a go. SoD – it’s war.

In Between Days

Think I've used this title before but, you know, I LOVE The Cure. And (see below) it's appropriate.

I probably gave Beth some visual torment yesterday that therapy won’t necessarily be able to dispel. I’d put my smaller jeans on to walk up the Thames path - and then chickened out and put my usual ones on. I dragged Beth in to the loos at Pizza Express (please note: I had a salad, and only ate one bread stick) to reveal the horrors lurking under my top – not to torture her, you understand, but to try and ascertain whether my jeans were too big. I knew that they were chafing round my waist where they were too loose and I moved but the jeans didn’t. I knew that I could almost pull them off without undoing the button and I knew that the legs flapped about a bit, but were they too big? “They’re way too big for you.” said Beth, womanfully coping with an eyeful of Peridot podge and keeping her lunch down. I suppose I know that, but the next size down just seems a bit tight. I suspect I am in the middle of the two sizes. Ah well, I’ll have to wear them a bit tight which will be a useful reminder not to eat anything whilst wearing them. Or, you know, breathe.

Yesterday I had to be up early anyway because I was on call (which requires actual action sadly, not just sitting about ready to spring into action) over a lot of the BH weekend (from bright and early Saturday to Sunday morning – thus spoiling 2 days of the 3). So as soon as I finished work and clocked off, I pulled on my leggings and trainers (and other necessary garments) and went for Week 2, Run 1. It’s upped to 90 secs run, 2 mins walk for 20 mins plus a 5 min warm up and another 5 mins to cool down. 90 secs doesn’t sound much does it? Well, it is. I’m struggling already, and I fear for Week 3 (and won’t let myself think beyond that – eeek). Although, weirdly, 2 mins feels too long too (at walking speed I hasten to add). Then I walked for 8 miles (according to trusty pedometer) over the course of the day in my MBTs. My walk on Saturday was a tad over 7 miles, so a good effort over the weekend I thought.

I have cycled today so I have continued with my sweaty path of virtue. Tomorrow I have an early run and then a personal training/kickbox session. I’m hoping to cycle on Thursday and run on Friday. And maybe a walk on Sunday. Long may this exemplary behaviour continue! And may Scales of Doom acknowledge my efforts on Friday.

The week that was

So, on Friday Scales of Doom told me I'd lost 3lbs in the last fortnight. It's what I think is generally referred to as a 'small mercy'; I had hoped for my body to suddenly realise 'whoops, drastic food intake change, lots of exercise, had better jettison ballast immediately' and my Dorset intake would be wiped clean. I still have 2lbs to go until I reach that weight and - I suspect - about a stone to be sure I'll fit into the outfit I have planned for Naughty R's wedding (did I mention that's in four week's time?). But then again, I battle to persuade my recalcitrant body to part with so much as an ounce of podge so - given the weekend away too - it was not too bad.

I thought about all this whilst running round the dock at 6.15am (along with snorting with derision when podcast-guy says 'you should be feeling the effects now' (yes) 'but shouldn't be too tired or out of breath to hold a conversation' (er, no, even the snort was an effort)). I have come to the conclusion that I can't do much more than I am doing so I just have to carry on doing that and hope for the best (and possibly formulate a Plan B). I'm still not feeling the running love but the dock did look lovely as I puffed past 7 swans-a-swimming (as well as 3 ducks (a-flying) and 1 cormorant (a-diving) but I don't remember them from the carol). Week 1 of Coach Potato to 5k is now complete and week 2 starts tomorrow. I've tried not to read ahead so I won't freak out at the concept of running non-stop for 5 mins or something similarly gargantuan. Eeeek.

Still on my Big Gold Star plan, I also heaved my MBTs to work so I could walk up to meet friends in the evening in them (probably only a couple of miles - but it all counts, no?). Yesterday I walked just over 7 miles around bluebell woods with mother and Lab Pack, bf and bf's friend and tomorrow I plan to walk at least 6 miles in MBTs (and run).

Next week my goals are to run three times, attend a personal training session that Beth scored for me and cycle at least twice, weather permitting (she says peering out of the window at a sheet of rain). Last week I cycled twice, ran three times and walked twice (I think). I'm still doing pretty well on the food front too so I am pleased with my progress even without any dramatic weight loss or inch loss.

Didn't stop me feeling particularly dumpy and frumpy on Friday though - made worse by the fact I'd made an effort with my appearance which really did not pay off. Ah well, I'll try and use it as motivation to continue with the discipline. And my mother also said she thought my thighs looked thinner and that's nice (2 of those compliments in a week). I suspect the bagginess of my jeans for creating an illusion but the fact of the matter is that they've got baggier for a reason.

Three things to feel grateful for last week:
1. Buying a static caravan on the Suffolk coast (hopefully) - hurrah for seaside and countryside most weekends.
2. I really kicked up the exercise to - I think - the maximum (and I mean that literally, not as a glib turn of phrase) so big pat on the back for me.
3. Had some nice emails from friends. I have said this before but I am really blessed with an amazing set of friends - lucky me.
4. Bonus one was the beauty of the woods yesterday - the new acid green leaves of the beech trees against the emerging purple-blue haze of bluebells in the dappled sunlight, bliss.