Oh January, how I hate you. Okay, we won’t go there again but let me just say, January is not making much effort to change my mind.
Of all the months when you could really do with perking yourself up with some sneaky chocolate, January is probably up there as the top month – and the one where you really can’t. Not that it makes much sodding difference, after two days sulkily back on the wagon, I’ve put on 2lbs.
I’m weighing every day at the moment so I knew I’d not lost anything after the first day – I am a dirty great tanker, I thought to myself, it will take a little while for the losses to register. But after two days and putting ON 2lbs, I am most seriously displeased. At pretty much any given time this would be a kicker in the puss (please note: puss means face in this instance. Lest some of you get graphically if metaphorically carried away. Um, south...) but when you add in January, denial and a strong need for affirmation, this sucks big time.
I have not yet started the starve days – that joy is before me. As in next week. I thought that festive to starve might actually be too much of a shock. But as it turns out, festive to diet is a shock – an unpleasant one at that. And the results are even worse.
And as it happens, there is additional pressure. Not that it should be pressure at all. But in the world of the fatty – or this fatty at any rate – things that should cause excitement and pleasure, have all kinds of other stings. I am going to have a pretty hideously full on month at work next month – from the volume of work rather than anything worse, I hasten to add. It’s looking like a shocker though. And so, sweetly, P said we’d go away in early March as something to look forward to and for relaxation. I was thinking a long weekend, probably somewhere in the West Country. It turns out his horizons were rather more expansive. He’s currently on the brink of booking a week in Cape Verde.
Now, this is not – to be utterly frank – my sort of holiday: I care nothing for sun, but I do like history and/or good hiking and eating out. This is very much a flopping around in the sun, all-inclusive, never leave the resort sort of holiday. I have never experienced this type of holiday but I see that it ticks the ‘relax’ box – I could probably drain my kindle dry in that time. The thing that is causing me unintended stress is the 'sun + fat = sad' formula which I have running through me like a stick of rock. I will not be going in the pools, the sea and possibly not even in a private Jacuzzi – the very idea causes my anxiety levels to sky rocket. Yes, I can sit by said sea/pool in a skirt and t-shirt but it will be pretty clear that I’m hiding. People will, no doubt, be grateful, but I feel like I’ll be calling attention to myself whether I bared or not, and that is abhorrent to me.
There is no way I can lose sufficient weight to feel better about having lightweight clothing on, let alone swimwear, but it does rather pile on the pressure to lose as much as possible. And that, whilst good from an incentive perspective, means that sessions with Scales of Doom are likely to be even more highly charged than they already are. I need to lose 12lbs to get into the next stone bracket (still an unacceptably high and blubbery one) which would at least have the bonus of feeling like a milestone: Reader, I have probably 7 weeks to get there. And as we know, my losses are so slow as to be invisible to the naked eye – and on top of that, I’m currently moving in the wrong direction. You’re reading this knowing I’m hyperventilating, right? Right.