Them's the breaks

Break 1: needing one. It’s been a hell of a week. I’m thrilled it’s a long weekend (even if the forecast IS pants) and I have Tuesday off too. Usually when we go up to Suffolk, I drive on the way there and bf on the way back, although I hate driving I know I must take my turn. Actually it’s a bit like exercise, I think I hate it but it’s more the idea of it – usually when I’m actually doing it, it’s okay. NB This does not apply to running; with running I hated the idea of it and then I hated it whilst I was doing it and then I hated that it didn’t have any effect on my weight. I did quite like the bit when I’d stopped running though – not exercise endorphins just relief that it was over until the next time. This week bf emailed me and said we’d take his (bigger and comfier) car up to Suffolk this weekend as he thought I just needed to rest. This morning as he left for work at 6.30am as I pressed snooze for the gazillionth time, he said “Lie in for you tomorrow. And the next day. AND the next day. And the day after that”. Bring. It. On.

Break 2: one of those days when you just can’t catch one. Tuesday was the pinnacle of horror this week. It was one of THOSE days. My boss was having one of her psycho turns being very vile to me and vile to my member of staff. I was so busy I didn’t have time to even have a cup of tea – for fear I’d need to take the time to go to the loo. I had a splitting headache. I’d cycled in and had faced a stiff head wind the whole way - and I only just managed to leave at 7pm as I knew they’d lock my bike in otherwise. Every single red light was against me cycling home (at BREAKneck speed - ha ha!). Every last one. It improved briefly that night when bf made me an excellent omelette of ham, mushrooms (which he’d cooked slowly in stock, mindful of The Diet) and a dollop of fat free fromage frais. He was critical of it, saying it’s impossible to make a good omelette with spray oil but I thought it looked fantastic – and it tasted better. I’m not making my own omelettes anymore – his are better, he is now my omelette bitch (um, please..). Then I weighed myself on Wednesday to find that I’d not lost so much as an ounce. Still up from Devon! Still up from Christmas!! Argghhh.

AND I had a very weird dream in the week: I was competing in the Olympic yak and cart driving event. For anyone unfamiliear with this event, you ran round the course WITH your yak and its cart, encouraging it on. I came second. Out of two. The girl who won had long, thick, blonde, wavy hair and long brown legs. And I bet her yak loved her more too. Humph.

So, this weekend. We’re going out to dinner and we’re having tea with friends. I’m always more stressed out about things like this if I feel I have been doing the right things but not losing weight – after all, if I can’t lose weight being exemplary, what chance do I have when there are things to negotiate around? I’m trying to accept that actually sometimes these things have no bearing at all. Right/wrong eating – you don’t always see it coming through on the scales. Confusing and infuriating but true. The weather looks uncertain so I think we won’t be walking for more than 2-3 hours each day – if that. I’m going to try NOT to fret about the next WI all weekend but enjoy it whilst still being sensible and mindful. I have learnt that being sensible means NOT opening a tub of chocolate meringues whilst under pressure at work. Yes, I’m within syns but even so.

Lightweight

In one – and one alone – sense I am a lightweight. Alcohol. I’ve never been a big drinker – I have headaches almost every day of my life already without adding any that are self-inflicted. But I love champagne, wine and cocktails. And occasional cider (good stuff only, none of your magners rubbish (the clue is that if you have to put ice in it, it's to stop it tasting and probably isn’t very nice)). Since being on a diet (which bf reminded me was kind of since year dot) – and more especially, over the last 5 years, I have drunk less. It was purely about the calories to be honest and I am sad about it but I have learnt that I can't have everything (damnit).

This weekend we decided to celebrate being engaged a year with a bottle of champagne; I drank a little under half of it, generously giving bf an extra glass. Then I had a glass of wine with my scallops. I felt fine. Until I had breakfast the next day when I developed a crushing headache, slight queasiness and extreme torpitude. I felt like this for the rest of the day. Can I please register my objection with the universe on this one? That is NOT a huge amount to drink, I don't make a habit of it and I did not deserve to feel so rubbish. As it is, I have a crushing headache today – is it day 2 of my wussy hangover or is it just my stupidly painful head? Grrrr.

The weekend – apart from most of Sunday – was lovely. We realised that we’d forgotten our walking boots so I did a 7 mile walk in fitflops. I am hoping that this means that my arse and thighs had a fine workout and are revving towards peachiness. Even as my feet got filthier and filthier. I actually had to use wipes on them just so I didn’t look like a troll and could enter polite society (aka Waitrose) before I even got as far as the shower.

One trauma that I bore with (reasonable) fortitude was leaving my chocolate meringue stash at work. Okay, I didn’t show much fortitude at all - I actually wailed aloud in horror (and Lesley, what ARE you suggesting? I thought you were a friend. I cannot possibly lay off them and am hyperventilating at the thought. Hush your mouth immediately). I made up for it today by eating a whole tub. Yup, that’s 20 (they’re very ickly, honestly. But yes, unbelievably piggy). That’s 15 syns just like that. My whole day’s allowance. I had enough – even with the booze – but I feel bad. Not so bad that I wouldn’t like to eat the other tub though.... ( I won't, I won't!)

Here comes the bride (all fat and wide??!)

Rock My Wedding – my favourite wedding website – features brides telling their stories of the build ups to their weddings. I’d have loved to apply for this but bf is vehemently opposed to his presence anywhere in the ether of the internet. Both of us are Facebook refuseniks. My anonymity is important to me in the context of this blog, but I would have tried to keep the two separate – I would have liked to have had a stab at writing for RMW. As it is, this is largely irrelevant since a) I’d have to be short-listed, b) then I’d have to be voted for (not at all sure I have mass appeal!) and c) I don’t have the techy skills to come up with their mood board in anycase!

But it got me thinking and I thought I’d do a ‘Previously on Peridot’ post to detail how I got here....

I met bf when I was a mere 24. I’d had a couple of serious boyfriends before – and a couple of not-so-serious ones too. Having upset my beloved grandmother at the age of 14 by announcing I intended to marry for money, it didn’t really make sense when I fell in love with a poor, recently separated man, 12 years my senior, with a little boy and an unpleasant ex-wife. But I did. I was wary at first – or as wary as someone as all-or-nothing as me can be – because I have an absurdly low boredom threshold with men. After the honeymoon phase I usually went off the man in question - my previous boyfriend sometimes actually repulsed me – but I knew it was my flaw, not theirs. And here was this man who, whatever his faults (and there are some), never bored me –made me laugh and cry, fascinated and frustrated the hell out of me but never, ever bored me.

I’d always wanted to get married when I was c26. We went to 3 weddings together in our first year – there’s a lovely photo of me gazing at him at one of them with my heart in my eyes. But he was pretty scarred by an unhappy marriage and a pretty nasty divorce. And we were broke. Really broke. We talked about marriage and he said he thought he might want to ‘one day’. Many days passed but it was never the ‘one day’. I moved my goalposts – I’d like to get married before I was 30. 30 came and went. Okay, 35. We even had a serious, tearful (on my part) conversation and agreed that it would be good to do before I was 35. 35 came and went and my friends agreed – it was never going to happen. Should I give him an ultimatum some wondered? I didn’t want to. I wanted him to WANT to marry me, not to feel forced into it. I gave up. I switched my urge to being a bridesmaid – and it was an urge, an ache, a longing, I wanted to wear a lovely dress and be that girl so, so badly! I also convinced myself that this would be the way I lost weight. But my two long-term best friends got married – one didn’t want any bridesmaids (although I got to sit at the top table and go wedding dress shopping with her) and the other got married abroad with just her and her husband. My brothers got married – one got married twice! – but I was always the person doing the reading, never part of the excitement of the main event. It seemed that everyone around me was doing the very thing I longed to and couldn’t do and I felt more excluded and on the outside than ever. I blamed myself – I wasn’t enough x,y or z to be a bride, a wife. I tried to accept it but I never really did.

Then, almost exactly a year ago, at the ripe age of 39, bf and I were in Devon on a long weekend – a birthday present from me to he. We were on a coastal walk – the sun was shining and the colours were at their zingy, zesty Springtime best. It was the sort of day that makes you glad to be alive. Whilst I was admiring the colour of the sea and puffing up the hill, bf was scanning the path for unwanted people and the best place to propose; I noticed nothing awry. It was not a traditional proposal – he did not go on one knee and I gaped like a suffocating fish and almost passed out. I did not accept in a gracious and emotional way (“WHAT? Yes! WHAT?”) – and I made him repeat himself half an hour later too – but somehow it was very us. The walk, the sea, the moment...

So now I have a whisper under 18 months until I’m a bride. I will probably become a bride in as unconventional a way as I became a fiancée. And I hope to make it an experience as typical of us and personal to us as the proposal turned out to be (hopefully without the lightheadedness and unattractive gaping mouth). We have a venue and a few sketchy plans and I spend an unreasonable amount of (joyous) time thinking about it but otherwise we have a blank slate. I’m going to enjoy filling it in.

Well blog-gone

My comments have been stolen. It said that I had 2 but I couldn’t access Blogger all the end of last week. Now they’re gone. Anyone seen them? Please hand them into your nearest internet police station.

So, it’s been a week (thanks to the Blogger meltdown). [Note: longer now because my internet wouldn't work yesterday when I wrote this]. I have had a tough week in many ways – the decorating was surprisingly tiring and my thighs have only just stopped screeching in pain when I try and go up or down stairs. My shoulder hurt so badly after wielding a remarkably heavy roller all day Saturday that I was wussily reduced to almost-tears and to ibuprofen. The family party was loooooong. I did not drink. Bf did drink. His family drank. They were all very chatty but slightly unfocused by 11pm. I was less so as I was wearing ridiculous shoes (BUT Kurt Geiger, reduced from £89 to £15 – got to love them, right?). Bf looked at them dubiously as we were about to leave the flat;

“What?” I asked defensively “Don’t you like them?”
“They look like they hurt you” he said “I don’t like anything that hurts you”
Awwwww. He was right, incidentally, they did.

So I had a dry weekend but there were cupcakes. I counted them but I had (over the course of 4 days) 5. Ahem. I’ve also become OBSESSED with M&S Belgian chocolate mini meringues – a very reasonable 1.5 syns for 2. My worst day was when I ate 12. In two ‘sittings’ but it’s not exactly making it much better, now is it.

I always feel rather queasy when I know I have to weigh myself. It doesn’t matter if I feel I’ve had a good week, I know enough of the capriciousness of SoD to feel worried. You will recall that I lost not a single itty-bitty ounce last week. This week I lost 1¾ lbs. It’s okay for a week, less so for 2 weeks. I’m Porky.9 ¾ - exactly 3lbs heavier than a month ago. It’s such a slog I feel tired. Or I feel tired and so it seems a slog – maybe it’s that way round.

Tomorrow (crazy work allowing) the bridal post....

Computer says no

I was much heartened by the comments that I got on my over-the-top weight gain from our weekend away. Of course I thought to myself, I’ve put a chunk on but some of that will be fictitious weight and I won’t panic – a week on the straight and narrow should jettison at least 2lbs of that, maybe 3lbs. And so I applied myself with careful dedication this week, always thinking about how pleased I was when I lost that 3lbs and got to Porky.6. I was still nervous this morning though – and this was entirely justified as it turns out, I lost the princely total of zilch.

I have got over the stage with this whole dieting malarkey where I throw myself about, rail against my fate, gnash my teeth, rend my hair etc etc. There’s a bit of low level lip wobbling but I tend to just get on with it. What never fails to get me though is the utter lack of logic and coherence. How do I learn from my mistakes in order not to repeat them if I cannot work out what the mistakes are? SWise One says I may not be eating enough so I guess I’ll try and address that but I don’t feel inherently that is the answer. I guess I’m hoping for one of my weird, inexplicable plummets next week. Which still doesn’t help with me understanding my own formula for success – something I badly need.

Especially since I’ve now had the call from the nurse and could make an appointment to learn to inject myself with this drug which should make me less hungry – for c£100. I’m not sure that this is the answer either – I don’t think I eat such a lot that subduing my hunger would make a difference. On the other hand, shouldn’t I try everything to lose weight? I don’t want to throw that £100 away – it’s not as if I have that spare money to burn (and see my costly but ineffective hypnotherapy experience a couple of years ago).

We’re painting the ceiling and walls of the halls this weekend and going to bf’s mother’s big birthday party. Bizarrely, my mum is coming too (not decorating but to the party). I’m the designated driver so I won’t be wasting syns on booze – but it may be more of an ordeal, let’s just say. At least a day’s painting will give bf and I a chance to come up with an agreed line on the wedding; we expect to be barracked into saying people are all invited (probably whilst our choice of venue is mocked – some of his family persist in going on about me being ‘posh’ in a slightly aggressive way). A lot of them won’t be invited to the day but they don’t have to know this yet! We’re tweaking the old phrase slightly to ‘friends and close family’.

Two go mad in Devon

Actually, I was reasonably proud of myself. Despite very strong urges to the contrary, I did not actually eat like a mad woman let of the diet leash (or perhaps not my version of this which could be a terrifying thing). Let's look at those results in a little more detail:

+-ves:
1. I made SW approved choices for lunch and dinner as much as I could (although really, WHY is it so hard to get a lunch which doesn't revolve around bread? This cut my choices down considerably and when you also rule out mayonnaise, well..)
2. I arranged a cunning SW friendly and delicious al fresco picnic supper for the first night.
3. I didn't order pudding on night 2. I don't think I even tasted bf's. This is so momentous that I want to bold it and put it in red flashing text.
4. I did order pudding on night 3 but ate about a third of it and decided it wasn't worth it. Even though bf felt this meant he had to finish it and wasn't too happy about it. I take his point about waste but still felt I did the right thing. Also, momentous for me.
5. I shared 1 scone with cream and jam with bf and a shared a brownie (different days). Yes, okay, cake but in a moderate fashion.
6. I drove on nights 2 and 3 so only had 1 glass of prosecco in total.
7. We walked every day and one walk had 3 such ferocious climbs that my legs were literally shaking at the top and I was gasping for breath.

--ves:
1. Booze. Half a bottle of champagne on night 1, half a bottle of prosecco and half a bottle of wine on night 4. This is a lot for me and I felt a bit dodgy on day 5.
2. Breakfast: yep, had (3 American style) blueberry pancakes with maple syrup for breakfast every morning. And toast with butter (homemade sunflower seed bread, mmmm)
3. I had 2 cupcakes; they were amazing. On days 1 and 4.
4. I had pudding on night 4 (coconut pannacotta with pineapple sorbet and pineapple carpaccio)
5. I had an ice cream (2 scoops) - it SO wasn't worth it. No more ice cream for me. I love Mr Whippy (low rent, I know) and Ben and Jerry's macadamia madness or phish food and that's pretty much it.
6. I did still have those half cakes. I don't regret those in the same way as the ice cream.
7. Lunches weren't perfect - just the best I could do. Moules in some creamy-cider sauce (left the sauce), a ham ploughmans which came with a wedge of bread (I ate most of the bread but I really wanted a stilton one or a cheese and chutney sarnie so felt noble), an asparagus frittata (which had a smidegeon of cheese) and a glass noodle and chicken salad (had peanuts in it - delicious but not SW friendly)

Reading all that, you will probably guess that my encounter with SoD yesterday was not a happy one: I put on 5lbs! I may be deluding myself, but that sounds unduly harsh to me. But, as a friend pointed out, I enjoyed the weekend and now I just have to move on. Which is what I'm doing. Bf said he'd be glad to get back to a more sensible diet "Quick on, quick off" he opined cheerfully. Well, I do hope so, but that's never been the case for me. Very happy to be proven wrong here.