OK, so last night there was gnocchi for dinner, and cornflakes for 'dessert', and occasional mouthfuls of the ridiculously good fudge d's taken to making. It was as if, dumbass-like, I'd said 'Sod it!' to the notion that today was Tuesday, with its appointment with the Nazi Scales, and decided to sail right off that cliff-edge of idiocy once more with feeling.
This morning though - 17st 3.5. Down 2.5 pounds on last week.
That'll be the walking, then.
Haven't, by any means, walked every day over the last week. Walked about three, maybe four days out of seven. But still, clearly, that unexpected addition of movement gave the system a tiny shock and let me claw back some progress towards the 17 stone border. So yay. As the song says though, more, more, more is what's needed. More sense, more walking, more biking, less late-night lunacy. It's not as if this fundamental equation is particularly hard to grasp. It's the human factor that in Disappearing, as in most things, is the doorway for error.
So I guess what I'm saying is I need to be less human.
It's arguable, actually, that that was part of what led me to be able to Disappear the first time - being less human. Shutting down the intrinsic emotional responses to pleasure-stimuli, by looking ahead to longer-term strategic goals. Or at the very least re-training myself as to what should trigger those emotional responses.
Hmm...something in that. Be less human. Be more robot. Be the Disappearing Man.
Hehe, yes, I know it starts to sound like a trailer for a new Netflix sci-fi drama, but if you're going to get anywhere in this game, you do sort of have to believe your own hype, see yourself in some starring role, otherwise it just becomes a parade of daily self-abnegation and self-denial, more or less because you hated how you were yesterday.
And yes, incidentally, you get more boring - or at least, I do. If I go full-on Disappearing Man, I become the most boring human being to talk to, because my internal clockwork is always somewhere else, running not entirely silently behind my eyes - intake, calorie value, exercise, calorie burn, balance, day by day, week by week and so on until an objective is achieved.
But there's another factor to the being less human, something that's fundamentally changed in my life since the first time I did this. The first time, I was heading towards my fortieth birthday. This year, I'll be 48. There's a degree to which you have to be able to see the point of the end goal, and at 40, that feels rather different to how it feels at 48. Disappearing did good things for my body - allowed me to radically reduce my medication-burden, allowed me to be more active without thinking about it or bitching about it, and so on. All that felt positive at 40. If I allow my human nature to hold sway, all that feels like a shrug at 48. Vanity - woo! Who cares, really? The irony of course is that vanity's a human element, so shutting that down in pursuit of the longer-term goal leaves you with less, at 48 (or rather, leaves me, at 48 with less) reason to give a Disappearing Fuck about the end result. The only time I've ever really been physically vain was during and at the end of that first Disappearing. It was the only time in my life I ever thought I had any kind of right to be vain. I'm not sure at 48 anybody benefits from the vain version of me, which means I'm left with the end-result of the Disappearing being little more than an increased ability to do the things I do because I want to Disappear...which makes the process rather blurred and unfocused.
Ach, so much for long-term strategic thinking. This is the kind of circular thinking that makes me dizzy when I let myself dwell on it. Enough - in the short-term, I'm down 2.5 pounds this week. Whoop-de-doo. Same again next week would put me within sniffing distance of the 17 stone borderline. That's my next objective, so let's focus on that for now, rather than on the diminishing returns of the Disappearing Man.
Showing posts with label walking. Show all posts
Showing posts with label walking. Show all posts
Tuesday, 16 April 2019
Tuesday, 9 April 2019
Yoga For Dumbasses
'Nope. Fuck it, s'gotta be done.'
Those, ladies, gentlemen and other groovers, are the words of a dumbass.
A dumbass who, on the night before a weigh-in, just an hour or so after eating a bowlful of glorious Chinese carbs (rice AND noodles, motherfucker!), decides the only thing that will do in the best of all possible words is to top it off with a bowl of cornflakes before falling, stupefied into bed.
So - yeah, when the Nazi Scales this morning were all uppity and 'What the fuck did you do? Man, you're 17 stone 6 pounds, take it and get the hell away from me,' there was a certain inescapable logic to their decision.
Up a pound and a half on last week. This...is not how things were supposed to go, quite frankly. I'd complain to the Department of Dumbasses (Don't tell me there's no such thing, have you seen the world lately?), but they'd probably, rightly, tell me to go fuck myself because we live in a deterministic universe with laws of cause and effect and all that gubbins.
Sometimes, cause and effect can kiss my flabby old ass.
So this is Yoga for Dumbasses - where I twist myself into pretzels of rationalisation and reality-denial, more or less solely for your amusement.
Here's where I plead that halfway through this week, the Nazi Scales were being my friends, and had dropped me down a pound from last week, to 17st 3.5. Where I rationalise the carbitude of the meal, and the bigness thereof. Where I add that probably the cornflakes hadn't had time to pass through my system, and so between them and the meal, there was probably more than a pound and a half of sheer food-weight in my system, just waiting for the first train out of there. (Don't look at me, I didn't say it would make sense, I said it would be a pretzel of rationalisation), and where, finally, as a sort of offering to the Disappearing gods, I throw in the fact that immediately after the Nazi Scales had their say this morning, I strapped on my walking boots, deadline or no pigging deadline, and I went walking, which I had more or less conspired with myself not to do over the last seven days. Yes, I fling that into the ring of Disappearing equations, by way of saying 'Look, look, this is me, taking it seriously again, honest!' and of course, as much as fooling anyone else might be my primary motive, the trick is to fool myself that This Is A Taking-It-Seriously Gesture, and that things will be getting back on track any minute now.
Honest.
Ooh - ow. Bugger. I think I've seized up mid-pretzel. Talk amongst yourselves for a bit, I need to untangle my legs...
Those, ladies, gentlemen and other groovers, are the words of a dumbass.
A dumbass who, on the night before a weigh-in, just an hour or so after eating a bowlful of glorious Chinese carbs (rice AND noodles, motherfucker!), decides the only thing that will do in the best of all possible words is to top it off with a bowl of cornflakes before falling, stupefied into bed.
So - yeah, when the Nazi Scales this morning were all uppity and 'What the fuck did you do? Man, you're 17 stone 6 pounds, take it and get the hell away from me,' there was a certain inescapable logic to their decision.
Up a pound and a half on last week. This...is not how things were supposed to go, quite frankly. I'd complain to the Department of Dumbasses (Don't tell me there's no such thing, have you seen the world lately?), but they'd probably, rightly, tell me to go fuck myself because we live in a deterministic universe with laws of cause and effect and all that gubbins.
Sometimes, cause and effect can kiss my flabby old ass.
So this is Yoga for Dumbasses - where I twist myself into pretzels of rationalisation and reality-denial, more or less solely for your amusement.
Here's where I plead that halfway through this week, the Nazi Scales were being my friends, and had dropped me down a pound from last week, to 17st 3.5. Where I rationalise the carbitude of the meal, and the bigness thereof. Where I add that probably the cornflakes hadn't had time to pass through my system, and so between them and the meal, there was probably more than a pound and a half of sheer food-weight in my system, just waiting for the first train out of there. (Don't look at me, I didn't say it would make sense, I said it would be a pretzel of rationalisation), and where, finally, as a sort of offering to the Disappearing gods, I throw in the fact that immediately after the Nazi Scales had their say this morning, I strapped on my walking boots, deadline or no pigging deadline, and I went walking, which I had more or less conspired with myself not to do over the last seven days. Yes, I fling that into the ring of Disappearing equations, by way of saying 'Look, look, this is me, taking it seriously again, honest!' and of course, as much as fooling anyone else might be my primary motive, the trick is to fool myself that This Is A Taking-It-Seriously Gesture, and that things will be getting back on track any minute now.
Honest.
Ooh - ow. Bugger. I think I've seized up mid-pretzel. Talk amongst yourselves for a bit, I need to untangle my legs...
Tuesday, 2 April 2019
The Dickishness Cessation
Urk.
Missed last week's weigh-in day blog. It sort of stuttered and fell back on the To-Do List, to the point where I intended to write it Thursday, for my pal Ruth's birthday...annnd then that didn't happen either. Today though, there must be blogging, otherwise it's starting to look like I've fallen entirely out of the habit.
Well - last week was an entirely unreasonable disappointment. unreasonable because gaining was very likely the outcome of a week of retreating lurgi (it's been borne in upon me that some Americans have no idea what a lurgi is - it's a UK word meaning a flu-like bug or virus, but has overtones of lurking, swamp-like sinuses and, to quote both Friends and my friend Sarah, 'sexy phlegm'), which menat I still didn't feel like getting out and DOING anything, but, because life's just that kind of bastard, my appetite came roaring back.
So, it should have been entirely forecastable that I'd go up again last week, but somehow I managed not to forecast it. The Nazi Scales though were amused.
'Haha,' they said, as if they were actors in a bad melodrama, 'We liked you better when you were fully sick. Then we took two pounds off you, and you cheered. Now you're just lollygagging about, you may have your two pounds back - 17st 4 pounds for you!'
Bastards.
Entirely fair, utterly predictable, but nevertheless bastards.
Because I say so, that's why.
This week...
I'm not sure in which direction to vaguely stab when trying to deflect responsibility this week. There was fudge, but then it seems entirely likely there will be irresistible fudge going forward, as d's making the Fudge of the Gods for a local deli, which, rather gratifyingly, is making fudge-fans all over Facebook weak at the knees. Because, as I may have mentioned on one or two previous occasions, d has mystic sorcery skills. She's kind of the Scheherazade of cakes. The Mata Hari of sweets. The Ada Lovelace of meats. Food is a conduit of love in her hands, a spring of creativity. It's her poetry.
So that's not a direction in which you'll find me stabbing.
Basically, haven't gone out to walk since the long one just before the lurgi fell on me from a great height. And my general eating pattern has included far more in the way of sweet things, stodgy things and carby things than it should have were I properely dedicated to this Disappearing lark since more or less the same point - starting out with comfort food when I was ill, and then, as I've recovered, keeping the comfort food in place, despite not upping the corresponding exercise level.
So...yeah. That'll be it. Basically, I've been a dick.
You want the tell-tale heart of this dickness? I haven't tested my blood sugar since the lurgi hit. That's the equivalent of not opening the post when you fear the arrival of bills. It's denial activity, to maintain your coccoon of ignorance.
Tested again for the first time in a while yesterday - 9.8. Today, slightly better - 9.5. Both of these are technically within the range my Diabetic Nurse wants me to stay inside, but they're actually noticeably over what I should be - between 6-8.
What's more, I could lie to you and say now that I feel better, I'll crack on with more walking this week - but I won't. I absolutely won't, because the deadlines are piling up and need addressing in a big old hurry. Maaaaaybe, after tomorrow, when I intend to complete one project, I could steal a couple of hours a day to at least say I've done something to give my system a boost.
Maybe.
Still - with deadlines clanging and the behaviour-patterns of a dick, this week, the Nazi Scales have me at 17st 4.5 - up another half-pound, which I guess, given the dickishness, is less catastrophic than it might have been. I'm aware of the gentleness of continental drift though - let things go for too long and you find you're seven pounds up, and have them to lose all over again. So...yes. Dickishness needs to end now. Focus and all that malarkey needs to be the way of the week.
Woo! Bring on the fun...
Missed last week's weigh-in day blog. It sort of stuttered and fell back on the To-Do List, to the point where I intended to write it Thursday, for my pal Ruth's birthday...annnd then that didn't happen either. Today though, there must be blogging, otherwise it's starting to look like I've fallen entirely out of the habit.
Well - last week was an entirely unreasonable disappointment. unreasonable because gaining was very likely the outcome of a week of retreating lurgi (it's been borne in upon me that some Americans have no idea what a lurgi is - it's a UK word meaning a flu-like bug or virus, but has overtones of lurking, swamp-like sinuses and, to quote both Friends and my friend Sarah, 'sexy phlegm'), which menat I still didn't feel like getting out and DOING anything, but, because life's just that kind of bastard, my appetite came roaring back.
So, it should have been entirely forecastable that I'd go up again last week, but somehow I managed not to forecast it. The Nazi Scales though were amused.
'Haha,' they said, as if they were actors in a bad melodrama, 'We liked you better when you were fully sick. Then we took two pounds off you, and you cheered. Now you're just lollygagging about, you may have your two pounds back - 17st 4 pounds for you!'
Bastards.
Entirely fair, utterly predictable, but nevertheless bastards.
Because I say so, that's why.
This week...
I'm not sure in which direction to vaguely stab when trying to deflect responsibility this week. There was fudge, but then it seems entirely likely there will be irresistible fudge going forward, as d's making the Fudge of the Gods for a local deli, which, rather gratifyingly, is making fudge-fans all over Facebook weak at the knees. Because, as I may have mentioned on one or two previous occasions, d has mystic sorcery skills. She's kind of the Scheherazade of cakes. The Mata Hari of sweets. The Ada Lovelace of meats. Food is a conduit of love in her hands, a spring of creativity. It's her poetry.
So that's not a direction in which you'll find me stabbing.
Basically, haven't gone out to walk since the long one just before the lurgi fell on me from a great height. And my general eating pattern has included far more in the way of sweet things, stodgy things and carby things than it should have were I properely dedicated to this Disappearing lark since more or less the same point - starting out with comfort food when I was ill, and then, as I've recovered, keeping the comfort food in place, despite not upping the corresponding exercise level.
So...yeah. That'll be it. Basically, I've been a dick.
You want the tell-tale heart of this dickness? I haven't tested my blood sugar since the lurgi hit. That's the equivalent of not opening the post when you fear the arrival of bills. It's denial activity, to maintain your coccoon of ignorance.
Tested again for the first time in a while yesterday - 9.8. Today, slightly better - 9.5. Both of these are technically within the range my Diabetic Nurse wants me to stay inside, but they're actually noticeably over what I should be - between 6-8.
What's more, I could lie to you and say now that I feel better, I'll crack on with more walking this week - but I won't. I absolutely won't, because the deadlines are piling up and need addressing in a big old hurry. Maaaaaybe, after tomorrow, when I intend to complete one project, I could steal a couple of hours a day to at least say I've done something to give my system a boost.
Maybe.
Still - with deadlines clanging and the behaviour-patterns of a dick, this week, the Nazi Scales have me at 17st 4.5 - up another half-pound, which I guess, given the dickishness, is less catastrophic than it might have been. I'm aware of the gentleness of continental drift though - let things go for too long and you find you're seven pounds up, and have them to lose all over again. So...yes. Dickishness needs to end now. Focus and all that malarkey needs to be the way of the week.
Woo! Bring on the fun...
Tuesday, 19 March 2019
The Spasmodic Crunches
Unnnnnnnnncleeeeeeeeean! Unnnnnnncleeeeeeean!
Bloke with a lurrrrrrgi! Unnnncleeeeeean!
Yes, you heard me - while of course it's the case that d has had a lurgi in perfect, get-on-with-it quietness and suffered appallingly while demanding dick-all in special privileges, I'm been going Total Sick Bloke for...well, actually since all the coughing and spangle-seeing of that long uphill walk I detailed last time. Sick as a dog. Useless. Sleeping hours of the day away, mostly because consciousness was such a pain in the chest. Spending additional hours in the bath because of the heat and the healing vapoury gloriousness of Olbas bubbles.
Have done precisely bog-all by way of exercise since that walk - first because of deadlines and then because of all this joyful lurgification.
Which means I have no logical way to explain to you how, getting on the Nazi Scales this morning (technically pre-bathroom, for those interested in the ins and outs of the thing, but it didn't seem especially worth waiting for), and saw:
17st 2.
Down...three and a quarter pounds.
All I can tell you is either this flu has a tapewormy element that has yet to be diagnosed, in which case I'm frankly happy to feed the fucker for a while before the nastiness of coaxing it out one way or another, or all the hacking coughs have acted like spasmodic stomach crunches, and I've been getting more of an enforced workout over the last seven weeks than I could possibly imagine, cos damn! Two pounds short of the next milestone, and into the Sixteens. That will be something to do a happy dance about - and happy dances will be altogether more possible than they have been, too. So yay. The lurgi of apparent weightloss has been an utter bastard, but the results are altogether rather more pleasing than the experience. Onward - to the border of Sixteeniness!
Bloke with a lurrrrrrgi! Unnnncleeeeeean!
Yes, you heard me - while of course it's the case that d has had a lurgi in perfect, get-on-with-it quietness and suffered appallingly while demanding dick-all in special privileges, I'm been going Total Sick Bloke for...well, actually since all the coughing and spangle-seeing of that long uphill walk I detailed last time. Sick as a dog. Useless. Sleeping hours of the day away, mostly because consciousness was such a pain in the chest. Spending additional hours in the bath because of the heat and the healing vapoury gloriousness of Olbas bubbles.
Have done precisely bog-all by way of exercise since that walk - first because of deadlines and then because of all this joyful lurgification.
Which means I have no logical way to explain to you how, getting on the Nazi Scales this morning (technically pre-bathroom, for those interested in the ins and outs of the thing, but it didn't seem especially worth waiting for), and saw:
17st 2.
Down...three and a quarter pounds.
All I can tell you is either this flu has a tapewormy element that has yet to be diagnosed, in which case I'm frankly happy to feed the fucker for a while before the nastiness of coaxing it out one way or another, or all the hacking coughs have acted like spasmodic stomach crunches, and I've been getting more of an enforced workout over the last seven weeks than I could possibly imagine, cos damn! Two pounds short of the next milestone, and into the Sixteens. That will be something to do a happy dance about - and happy dances will be altogether more possible than they have been, too. So yay. The lurgi of apparent weightloss has been an utter bastard, but the results are altogether rather more pleasing than the experience. Onward - to the border of Sixteeniness!
Tuesday, 12 March 2019
The Fluctuation Factor
My Nazi Scales are taking the piss today.
Post-bathroom weigh-in this morning - 17st 6.25 - same as last week. I'll be honest, I was happy enough to take that on a week which has included d's sdalty peanut fudge, cos dayum!
Padded about a bit in a semi-regular morning daze, listening, of all things, to an audiobook reading of The Consolation of Philosophy, by Boethius (don't let that fool you, I'm not high-brow, I've moved on to a Doctor Who novelization now). Went back. Scratched myself where I itched. Stepped back on the Nazi Scales.
17st 4.0. Tried that a few times, got consistent results.
'Fuck off,' I muttered. 'There's no way I lost precisely dick-all in seven days, and then 2.25 pounds in half an hour's dicking about. You're just fucking with me now.'
I pulled the scales to a slightly different position on the tiled floor. Stepped on again.
'Fine, see if you like this then,' said the Nazi Scales. 'Can do you a 17st 5.25. That suitably reasonable for you, is it?'
'Thank you,' I muttered - re-doing the weigh-in seveal more times, to make sure I got consistent results.
So. Somewhere between where I was last week and two and a quarter pounds lighter is probably where I aactually am.
For no terribly good reason, I'm going to take the middle reading, and claim 17 stone 5.25 as today's 'actual' reading. Because hell, it has to be something, and it might as well be that - each of the three readings was taken at least three times, for the 'No, really, stop fucking with me' value, so it's as valid as anything else, doesn't push me into entirely unbelievable places, and still allows me to go completely into Smug Mode today at having fudge and carrying on.
So...yeah. Nazi Scales say 17st 5.25 today. IF I were to, y'know, get my shit together and have some properly good weeks of not eating fudge and walking my ass off, I could theoretically push on down into the 16s three weeks from now - which would be something to shove in the face of my diabetic nurse next time I see her. The letter's already arrived, but I'm pretending it hasn't, because my recent blood results have been less than stellar, tending to go from 9ish to 11ish and back again. #MustDoBetter, clearly, at least on that score.
Oh, and talking of walking - went and did it last night. First time in about two weeks, I think. Now, here's the thing. Our flat is in the centre of a very small seaside town. About five, maybe six streets, that's the heart of the town. My usual walking route is ennnntirely flat, along the main street, alont a side street, through a couple of tunnels (see previous entries where I fell and knackered my ankle), and then along a lovely coastal path with the sea on my right, usually from Saundersfoot, via a fancy restaurant called Coast, to the rather gloriously-named Wiseman's Bridge. This is my 'basic' walk - usually when I get cocky about it and want to do more, I divert just before Wiseman's and head into a forest, past an old iron works and on into the wide green yonder.
Last night, I decided to do something different.
I went up the fairly steep-ish hill that leads the way out of the town centre to the other side of us. Saw an interesting uphill street attached to it. Walked up there. And up there. And up and up and up there. Coughed, spluttered, saw spangles, thought briefly 'This is it, this is how I die,' pressed on ever upward.
Eventually, oh, SO eventually, found a downhill road. Came down and down and down and realised I'd taken about an hour to go the 'eight minutes on the flat' journey to Coast.
That's a rubbish way to get to Coast, unless you happen to want to burn calories, flay leg-muscles and stop being able to breathe. So - result. I saw another uphill road. And followed it, up, and up, and up...annnnnnnd down again to Wiseman's. Basically, I leapfrogged my way to Wiseman's Bridge, with more pain, more gasping and more destruction of my will to live. But it actually felt rather good to do it, simply because I haven't done any proper walking for a while.
Came back the flat way though, obviously. I mean, I'm clearly a moron, but even I have limits.
Got in just as the 65mph gusts of the joyfest that is Storm Gareth were beginning to hit us.
So...haven't walked at all today. Haven't, in fact, been outside the door today, apart from a quick pop to the corner shop. Probably won't, now, until Saturday cos aaaaaargh - deadlines.
But before deadlines - The Great British Sewing Bee.
Shurrup, don't judge me, it's compelling...What the hell kind of stitch is that?
Post-bathroom weigh-in this morning - 17st 6.25 - same as last week. I'll be honest, I was happy enough to take that on a week which has included d's sdalty peanut fudge, cos dayum!
Padded about a bit in a semi-regular morning daze, listening, of all things, to an audiobook reading of The Consolation of Philosophy, by Boethius (don't let that fool you, I'm not high-brow, I've moved on to a Doctor Who novelization now). Went back. Scratched myself where I itched. Stepped back on the Nazi Scales.
17st 4.0. Tried that a few times, got consistent results.
'Fuck off,' I muttered. 'There's no way I lost precisely dick-all in seven days, and then 2.25 pounds in half an hour's dicking about. You're just fucking with me now.'
I pulled the scales to a slightly different position on the tiled floor. Stepped on again.
'Fine, see if you like this then,' said the Nazi Scales. 'Can do you a 17st 5.25. That suitably reasonable for you, is it?'
'Thank you,' I muttered - re-doing the weigh-in seveal more times, to make sure I got consistent results.
So. Somewhere between where I was last week and two and a quarter pounds lighter is probably where I aactually am.
For no terribly good reason, I'm going to take the middle reading, and claim 17 stone 5.25 as today's 'actual' reading. Because hell, it has to be something, and it might as well be that - each of the three readings was taken at least three times, for the 'No, really, stop fucking with me' value, so it's as valid as anything else, doesn't push me into entirely unbelievable places, and still allows me to go completely into Smug Mode today at having fudge and carrying on.
So...yeah. Nazi Scales say 17st 5.25 today. IF I were to, y'know, get my shit together and have some properly good weeks of not eating fudge and walking my ass off, I could theoretically push on down into the 16s three weeks from now - which would be something to shove in the face of my diabetic nurse next time I see her. The letter's already arrived, but I'm pretending it hasn't, because my recent blood results have been less than stellar, tending to go from 9ish to 11ish and back again. #MustDoBetter, clearly, at least on that score.
Oh, and talking of walking - went and did it last night. First time in about two weeks, I think. Now, here's the thing. Our flat is in the centre of a very small seaside town. About five, maybe six streets, that's the heart of the town. My usual walking route is ennnntirely flat, along the main street, alont a side street, through a couple of tunnels (see previous entries where I fell and knackered my ankle), and then along a lovely coastal path with the sea on my right, usually from Saundersfoot, via a fancy restaurant called Coast, to the rather gloriously-named Wiseman's Bridge. This is my 'basic' walk - usually when I get cocky about it and want to do more, I divert just before Wiseman's and head into a forest, past an old iron works and on into the wide green yonder.
Last night, I decided to do something different.
I went up the fairly steep-ish hill that leads the way out of the town centre to the other side of us. Saw an interesting uphill street attached to it. Walked up there. And up there. And up and up and up there. Coughed, spluttered, saw spangles, thought briefly 'This is it, this is how I die,' pressed on ever upward.
Eventually, oh, SO eventually, found a downhill road. Came down and down and down and realised I'd taken about an hour to go the 'eight minutes on the flat' journey to Coast.
That's a rubbish way to get to Coast, unless you happen to want to burn calories, flay leg-muscles and stop being able to breathe. So - result. I saw another uphill road. And followed it, up, and up, and up...annnnnnnd down again to Wiseman's. Basically, I leapfrogged my way to Wiseman's Bridge, with more pain, more gasping and more destruction of my will to live. But it actually felt rather good to do it, simply because I haven't done any proper walking for a while.
Came back the flat way though, obviously. I mean, I'm clearly a moron, but even I have limits.
Got in just as the 65mph gusts of the joyfest that is Storm Gareth were beginning to hit us.
So...haven't walked at all today. Haven't, in fact, been outside the door today, apart from a quick pop to the corner shop. Probably won't, now, until Saturday cos aaaaaargh - deadlines.
But before deadlines - The Great British Sewing Bee.
Shurrup, don't judge me, it's compelling...What the hell kind of stitch is that?
Tuesday, 8 January 2019
The Trampoline Factor
First week of the new year, and there has been, at least, a little movement.
Today's weigh-in has me at 17st 10.75.
In other words, for anyone following this nonsense, it's two weeks ago. Again. Or indeed three weeks ago for that matter, as there was a week of no movement. The upside of course is that the half a pound I put on last week in the distinctly muted madness of a Christmas and New year celebration has evaporated. The downside, for those of my own, rather more melancholic nature, is that 0.5 pounds is a pretty poor repayment of effort for a week which has at least seen me begin walking again.
Hey ho, let us dance the happy dance of weightloss, but let us dance it with a trademark Alan Rickman sneer, just for balance.
It feels almost like being on a trampoline, with weekly snapshots taken at whichever point on a repeated bounce-wave I happen to be at on a Tuesday morning - 17st 10.75, 17st 10.75, 17st 11.5, 17st 10.75. Of course on that imagery, what I aim to do by a week today is to plunge through the black rubber of the trampoline and touch the ground underneath - the ground which in this case reads 17st 8.75. In itself, that feels like a nothing result, but the key is that if I achieve it, the week following, I'll be under another milestone - 17st 7, or the halfway point of the 17 stone spectrum. It feels hard to escape the logic of course that says next week, the trampoline will twang me back up, because for the fourth week in a row I haven't been able to get beneath the 'barrier.' Must do though, because of course, it's actually not logical at all, it's an invention which runs the risk of getting way out of hand. Let's act like we believe in zen calm and all that, and acknowledge that barriers are only barriers if we believe they're barriers.
Be the weightloss, be the weightloss, be the weightloss.
Ach, bugger zen calm and chanting - more walking, less food seems to be the order of the week. Woohoo.
Oh, and rather annoyingly, the blood sugar results are spiking again this week - this morning, 11.0. Yesterday 9.5. Day before, 11.8 (though there's a a rational reason for that - d's birthday on the 5th meant there was steak, and a rich madeira sauce, and arancini starter, and even a slice of appallingly gorgeous chocolate cake...), so 11.8 the following morning was relatively reasonable. 5th January was 10.4 - an annoying smidgen outside the lines. 4th - 9.7, a smidgen the other way. 3rd - 11.6. 2nd - 9.3. 1st, after a New Year's Eve Indian banquet - 10.9.
Apart from the logical results after big feasts, I could invent reasons randomly for the elevated results this week - possibly more fruit juice in my system than water? But let's take a little stock, shall we? I've just - believe it or not, and despite seeming to realise it last week, I've JUST realised taht the day after the Indian banquet was when I last weighed in, and that might just possibly explain a thing or two about last week's result. And I've similarly just realised that this week has included d's birthday feast, including cake, which may well have slammed the brakes on any greater loss this week. It was worth it, to be fair, so that's where you find me - having stomped the bounce and preparing to go all stern-eyed and walky to achieve a loss from this low point next week. Game on. Cake off. Downwarrrrrrrd!
Today's weigh-in has me at 17st 10.75.
In other words, for anyone following this nonsense, it's two weeks ago. Again. Or indeed three weeks ago for that matter, as there was a week of no movement. The upside of course is that the half a pound I put on last week in the distinctly muted madness of a Christmas and New year celebration has evaporated. The downside, for those of my own, rather more melancholic nature, is that 0.5 pounds is a pretty poor repayment of effort for a week which has at least seen me begin walking again.
Hey ho, let us dance the happy dance of weightloss, but let us dance it with a trademark Alan Rickman sneer, just for balance.
It feels almost like being on a trampoline, with weekly snapshots taken at whichever point on a repeated bounce-wave I happen to be at on a Tuesday morning - 17st 10.75, 17st 10.75, 17st 11.5, 17st 10.75. Of course on that imagery, what I aim to do by a week today is to plunge through the black rubber of the trampoline and touch the ground underneath - the ground which in this case reads 17st 8.75. In itself, that feels like a nothing result, but the key is that if I achieve it, the week following, I'll be under another milestone - 17st 7, or the halfway point of the 17 stone spectrum. It feels hard to escape the logic of course that says next week, the trampoline will twang me back up, because for the fourth week in a row I haven't been able to get beneath the 'barrier.' Must do though, because of course, it's actually not logical at all, it's an invention which runs the risk of getting way out of hand. Let's act like we believe in zen calm and all that, and acknowledge that barriers are only barriers if we believe they're barriers.
Be the weightloss, be the weightloss, be the weightloss.
Ach, bugger zen calm and chanting - more walking, less food seems to be the order of the week. Woohoo.
Oh, and rather annoyingly, the blood sugar results are spiking again this week - this morning, 11.0. Yesterday 9.5. Day before, 11.8 (though there's a a rational reason for that - d's birthday on the 5th meant there was steak, and a rich madeira sauce, and arancini starter, and even a slice of appallingly gorgeous chocolate cake...), so 11.8 the following morning was relatively reasonable. 5th January was 10.4 - an annoying smidgen outside the lines. 4th - 9.7, a smidgen the other way. 3rd - 11.6. 2nd - 9.3. 1st, after a New Year's Eve Indian banquet - 10.9.
Apart from the logical results after big feasts, I could invent reasons randomly for the elevated results this week - possibly more fruit juice in my system than water? But let's take a little stock, shall we? I've just - believe it or not, and despite seeming to realise it last week, I've JUST realised taht the day after the Indian banquet was when I last weighed in, and that might just possibly explain a thing or two about last week's result. And I've similarly just realised that this week has included d's birthday feast, including cake, which may well have slammed the brakes on any greater loss this week. It was worth it, to be fair, so that's where you find me - having stomped the bounce and preparing to go all stern-eyed and walky to achieve a loss from this low point next week. Game on. Cake off. Downwarrrrrrrd!
Tuesday, 20 November 2018
The Imp Of Physical Carnage
Yes, yes, yes, started again. Yes, again, again, again.
By the time of this first Tuesday since the reboot, I've done a few days of not eating what I want, not drinking anything but plain water, coffee and the occasional fruit juice, deeply, thoroughly wanting to beat people to death with giant Toblerones (usually a Day 2 phenomenon, I'm over it now), walking hither and yon just to force my ass up and my legs to move, and so on.
Yeah, it kinda sucks, frankly - when it starts to feel good, believe me, I'll let you know, but right now, it just kinda sucks.It's the resistance you get when you first start sawing a plank of wood - you're cutting against the grain of long experience, habit and expectation (both physical, in that you crave sugar, and mental, in that you turn the denial of that craving into the world being unfair very specifically to you).
Perhaps most creepily, when d goes to work, there's still something impish in my mind that flares to life, saying 'Ooh, it's playtime! What kind of self-destructive shit can we cram down our throat and get away with today!'
Not that I was cramming self-destructive shit down my throat to an enormous degree before I started back on this Disappearing lark, but certainly, if I decided I wanted a chocolate bar, I'd have it and not think about it (Evil Tip - if you do it early enough in the day, it doesn't mess up your next morning's blood sugar that much). Now the imp of physical carnage screams in my ear about five seconds after the door closes, and there's no-one to shut it the hell up but me. And I have to tell you, swigging plain water in those moments absolutely sucks the big one, and also doesn't really work as an antidote to the imp.
But still, here you find me, restarted, having resisted a bunch of blandishments - it's an adjustment for everyone around me when I slam back into Disappearing mode on the snap of a finger, so people still offer me stuff, and I have to remember, and refuse them politely - and as yet, have managed to resist either beating people to death with the Toblerone, or indeed ramming it, Pyreneean, down my neack for a sweet, sweet nougat hit...
...
...
Sorry, where was I?
Oh yeah - so, first Tuesday. Weigh-in day. Well, we're starting off this time in a place more reasonable than most recent attempts - I've had attempts in this last year that have started at 19st 7, 18st 7 and so on. This time, we're starting out at 18st 2 - which is actually the lightest I've been in some time, though it's not light enough at the moment to let me like the bloke I see in mirrors and photos, who seems to me to be an overstuffed sack of spuds. 18st 2 is close enough to the 18 stone border (lol I've explained stones to the world several times - I'd suggest going back a few entries, it'll all be there) to give me something immediate to strive for. More to the point, I never feel like I'm properly Disappearing till I'm into the 17 stone realm. Now of course, this is purely based on prior experience, and by the time I was in the 17 stone realm the first time I did this, I'd already lost three stone, so it's a completely false reckoning, and really speaking, I shouldn't feel like I'm properly Disappearing this time till I'm in the 15s, but hey, habits, right? If getting into the 17 stone zone spurs me on at this moment to shut the imp of physical carnage up, I'm taking it. That's the thing, really - there are lies aplenty available to you. Use them. Use them allll. If they help you climb in the direction you want to go, it doesn't matter that you know they're basically bullshit. Call on any god you like, ascribe value to one particular threshold or another, it really doesn't matter - do it, get over that line, take strength from whatever belief is open to you, but get over that line, where the imp of physical carnage, the voice that says it's not fair that you have to do this, or you're going to fail, or it's your birthday, or you're on your holidays, doesn't sway you as often as it does at the start.
Defeat that little bugger any way you can, because only your mind gives a damn about rationalizations. Your body? Just cares about what you put in it, and what you do with it. It makes no excuses, and it makes no allowances, sadly.
So - onward. Hopefully, a week from now I'll either be on the 18 stone border or eeeeven just possibly a smidgen under it.
Oh, and for those who want to know such things:
Blood sugar:
20th November - 9.1
19th November - Skipped, accidentally, as had breakfast before remembering
18th November - 9.2
17th November - Skipped
16th November - 9.2
15th November - 9.0
14th November - 11.9 - my bad, only took half my diabetic meds the day before.
13th November - 9.7
12th November - 9.3
11th November - 10.5 - late supper
10th November - 10.3 - late supper
9th November - 9.5
8th November - 11.4 (acting like an ass, clearly)
7th November - 12.2 (acting like a super-ass, even more clearly)
So while there's still a way to go before I get back into the 6-8 range now deemed optimal, I'm seeming to establish a pattern of single-figures with occasional assery at the moment. Will be interesting to see how that goes as the imp of physical carnage is squished more and more beneath my thumbnail.
By the time of this first Tuesday since the reboot, I've done a few days of not eating what I want, not drinking anything but plain water, coffee and the occasional fruit juice, deeply, thoroughly wanting to beat people to death with giant Toblerones (usually a Day 2 phenomenon, I'm over it now), walking hither and yon just to force my ass up and my legs to move, and so on.
Yeah, it kinda sucks, frankly - when it starts to feel good, believe me, I'll let you know, but right now, it just kinda sucks.It's the resistance you get when you first start sawing a plank of wood - you're cutting against the grain of long experience, habit and expectation (both physical, in that you crave sugar, and mental, in that you turn the denial of that craving into the world being unfair very specifically to you).
Perhaps most creepily, when d goes to work, there's still something impish in my mind that flares to life, saying 'Ooh, it's playtime! What kind of self-destructive shit can we cram down our throat and get away with today!'
Not that I was cramming self-destructive shit down my throat to an enormous degree before I started back on this Disappearing lark, but certainly, if I decided I wanted a chocolate bar, I'd have it and not think about it (Evil Tip - if you do it early enough in the day, it doesn't mess up your next morning's blood sugar that much). Now the imp of physical carnage screams in my ear about five seconds after the door closes, and there's no-one to shut it the hell up but me. And I have to tell you, swigging plain water in those moments absolutely sucks the big one, and also doesn't really work as an antidote to the imp.
But still, here you find me, restarted, having resisted a bunch of blandishments - it's an adjustment for everyone around me when I slam back into Disappearing mode on the snap of a finger, so people still offer me stuff, and I have to remember, and refuse them politely - and as yet, have managed to resist either beating people to death with the Toblerone, or indeed ramming it, Pyreneean, down my neack for a sweet, sweet nougat hit...
...
...
Sorry, where was I?
Oh yeah - so, first Tuesday. Weigh-in day. Well, we're starting off this time in a place more reasonable than most recent attempts - I've had attempts in this last year that have started at 19st 7, 18st 7 and so on. This time, we're starting out at 18st 2 - which is actually the lightest I've been in some time, though it's not light enough at the moment to let me like the bloke I see in mirrors and photos, who seems to me to be an overstuffed sack of spuds. 18st 2 is close enough to the 18 stone border (lol I've explained stones to the world several times - I'd suggest going back a few entries, it'll all be there) to give me something immediate to strive for. More to the point, I never feel like I'm properly Disappearing till I'm into the 17 stone realm. Now of course, this is purely based on prior experience, and by the time I was in the 17 stone realm the first time I did this, I'd already lost three stone, so it's a completely false reckoning, and really speaking, I shouldn't feel like I'm properly Disappearing this time till I'm in the 15s, but hey, habits, right? If getting into the 17 stone zone spurs me on at this moment to shut the imp of physical carnage up, I'm taking it. That's the thing, really - there are lies aplenty available to you. Use them. Use them allll. If they help you climb in the direction you want to go, it doesn't matter that you know they're basically bullshit. Call on any god you like, ascribe value to one particular threshold or another, it really doesn't matter - do it, get over that line, take strength from whatever belief is open to you, but get over that line, where the imp of physical carnage, the voice that says it's not fair that you have to do this, or you're going to fail, or it's your birthday, or you're on your holidays, doesn't sway you as often as it does at the start.
Defeat that little bugger any way you can, because only your mind gives a damn about rationalizations. Your body? Just cares about what you put in it, and what you do with it. It makes no excuses, and it makes no allowances, sadly.
So - onward. Hopefully, a week from now I'll either be on the 18 stone border or eeeeven just possibly a smidgen under it.
Oh, and for those who want to know such things:
Blood sugar:
20th November - 9.1
19th November - Skipped, accidentally, as had breakfast before remembering
18th November - 9.2
17th November - Skipped
16th November - 9.2
15th November - 9.0
14th November - 11.9 - my bad, only took half my diabetic meds the day before.
13th November - 9.7
12th November - 9.3
11th November - 10.5 - late supper
10th November - 10.3 - late supper
9th November - 9.5
8th November - 11.4 (acting like an ass, clearly)
7th November - 12.2 (acting like a super-ass, even more clearly)
So while there's still a way to go before I get back into the 6-8 range now deemed optimal, I'm seeming to establish a pattern of single-figures with occasional assery at the moment. Will be interesting to see how that goes as the imp of physical carnage is squished more and more beneath my thumbnail.
Monday, 19 March 2018
A Tale Of Two Tuesdays
Hello!
Sorry, had a bit of a mad couple of weeks. Up and out the door before I was wise two Tuesdays ago. Last week was fine, but I simply never got round to posting a blog because I was on an editing deadline for rather a smashing book. Last week's weigh-in was 19st 2.0.
Joy. Am apparenlty nevver destined to get beneath 19 stone again. Humph. Have now cleared most of the troublesome flotsam away from the exercise bike, so there's that. And the forms have gone in to sign up with a new doctor, so again, some sort of progress.
Of course we've also had the Beast From The East since I last posted (and no, I don't mean whoever poisoned the former spy in Salisbury). Snow on the beach and all such fun. Has had a tendency to make me want to stay indoors and eat everything, but as I say, last Tuesday, the weigh-in was encouraging, without in any way marking progress.
I have, of course, because this is me and I always feel this way, a notion that tomorrow's weigh-in will be a disaster - didn't go out very much at all last week, more down to the editing deadline than the snow, really, and have felt bloated and full for the last few days. I haven't been mainlining intravenous eclairs or anything, but still, the relative haystack into which I've frozen in terms of my activity can't really bode that well. So...we'll see what happens in the morning. Just been for my first walk to Wiseman's Bridge in a while though, so that's positive. As is the fact that two weeks ago, my new optician told me he was concerned that I had Macular Degeneration in my eyes. I duly went last week to be dilated and let him have a proper look around. Turns out - buggerall degeneration, must have been something else on the day he saw what he thought he saw. So that was immensely positive. On we go, through whatever tomorrow brings, to another relatively upbeat weak. Honest.
Sorry, had a bit of a mad couple of weeks. Up and out the door before I was wise two Tuesdays ago. Last week was fine, but I simply never got round to posting a blog because I was on an editing deadline for rather a smashing book. Last week's weigh-in was 19st 2.0.
Joy. Am apparenlty nevver destined to get beneath 19 stone again. Humph. Have now cleared most of the troublesome flotsam away from the exercise bike, so there's that. And the forms have gone in to sign up with a new doctor, so again, some sort of progress.
Of course we've also had the Beast From The East since I last posted (and no, I don't mean whoever poisoned the former spy in Salisbury). Snow on the beach and all such fun. Has had a tendency to make me want to stay indoors and eat everything, but as I say, last Tuesday, the weigh-in was encouraging, without in any way marking progress.
I have, of course, because this is me and I always feel this way, a notion that tomorrow's weigh-in will be a disaster - didn't go out very much at all last week, more down to the editing deadline than the snow, really, and have felt bloated and full for the last few days. I haven't been mainlining intravenous eclairs or anything, but still, the relative haystack into which I've frozen in terms of my activity can't really bode that well. So...we'll see what happens in the morning. Just been for my first walk to Wiseman's Bridge in a while though, so that's positive. As is the fact that two weeks ago, my new optician told me he was concerned that I had Macular Degeneration in my eyes. I duly went last week to be dilated and let him have a proper look around. Turns out - buggerall degeneration, must have been something else on the day he saw what he thought he saw. So that was immensely positive. On we go, through whatever tomorrow brings, to another relatively upbeat weak. Honest.
Tuesday, 6 February 2018
The Optimist's Smidgen
Weigh-in day. Deep joy, as ever.
Today's official weigh-in numbers are: 19 stone 5.5.
That's just three-quarters of a pound lost in the space of seven days of walking, chocolate avoidance and so on.
Hey...and in a very real sense...ho.
Woke up to snow on the beach this morning, so d and I went galumphing along the beach, looking at dead jellyfish, living but entirely daft dogs taking a dip, and fellow humans who believe that a day of snow at the seaside is better than a day elsewhere doing anything else. So that was nice.
In the spirit of turning snow at the seaside into a fun experience, am deciding to experiment with extreme optimism. Sure, it's less than a pound, but sod it, it's less than a pound in the right direction.
Granted, at this rate, I'll be dead of old age before I achieve my ideal weight, but hey - let's not dwell on that, let's celebrate week 2 of less weight that I started out with, and move merrily on. There's an exercise bike I'm vaguely uncovering as I strive for some kind of post-move clarity in the office. There's more walking to be done when the mood and the time takes me, and a working lughole to fill full of audiobooks as I stride. There's the sea, which is an enormously powerful mood enhancer in my case, and there's work to be done in all areas of life, and time still to do it, so onward! I may have only lost a smidgen, but dammit, let's make it an optimist's smidgen, which is as good as a chunk.
So...there.
Today's official weigh-in numbers are: 19 stone 5.5.
That's just three-quarters of a pound lost in the space of seven days of walking, chocolate avoidance and so on.
Hey...and in a very real sense...ho.
Woke up to snow on the beach this morning, so d and I went galumphing along the beach, looking at dead jellyfish, living but entirely daft dogs taking a dip, and fellow humans who believe that a day of snow at the seaside is better than a day elsewhere doing anything else. So that was nice.
In the spirit of turning snow at the seaside into a fun experience, am deciding to experiment with extreme optimism. Sure, it's less than a pound, but sod it, it's less than a pound in the right direction.
Granted, at this rate, I'll be dead of old age before I achieve my ideal weight, but hey - let's not dwell on that, let's celebrate week 2 of less weight that I started out with, and move merrily on. There's an exercise bike I'm vaguely uncovering as I strive for some kind of post-move clarity in the office. There's more walking to be done when the mood and the time takes me, and a working lughole to fill full of audiobooks as I stride. There's the sea, which is an enormously powerful mood enhancer in my case, and there's work to be done in all areas of life, and time still to do it, so onward! I may have only lost a smidgen, but dammit, let's make it an optimist's smidgen, which is as good as a chunk.
So...there.
Monday, 5 February 2018
The Disappointment Bubble
The temptation to carve up time into tiny chunks can be dangerous when Disappearing.
That means unofficial weigh-ins between proper weigh-ins can potentially throw you for a loop, and affect your motivation. That's happened to me this week - an unofficial weigh-in showed only slow progress, and a subsequent unofficial weigh-in actually showed no progress, and the temptation then, when you're putting the time in to increase your exercise quotient and very specifically not eating a whole host of things you want to eat, is to feel distinctly pouty and stone-kicky and, not to put too fine a point on it, tantrummy.
I actually expect no progress at all on tomorrow's officiall weigh-in, so any that does come will be a bonus (a psychologically useful thing, this last-minute moving of goalposts to maintain equilibrium in the face of what would otherwise be bad news). The truth, I suspect, is that my body has acclimatized quickly to the things I'm doing, and is sitting there going 'Yeah. What else ya got?'
The additional truth of course is that I've got quite a lot. This has been what I hope it's OK in this absurd Brexitworld we live in to call a Soft Disappearing, at least in terms of its beginnings. I have still yet to clear enough of the carnage of boxes from around my exercise bike to get back on it since this Disappearing began. There have been days this week when deadlines took precedence and I didn't walk. And even on the days when I did, the distance has been sub-10,000 steps (thought I was somewhat heartened to read a news story this week that said the 10,000 step target was pretty much arbitrary).So there are certainly things I can, and will, do to make the Disappearing bite rather harder in the week ahead. But right now, it would be foolish to deny I'm in a bit of a Disappointment Bubble, because almost every time I've tried, I've lost more than this in the first two weeks, and you get used to, and expectant of, that initial bump-down of water-weight to power-surge your ego and push you on.
That hasn't happened yet this time. Perhaps by giving the Disappearing a few more teeth, I can start to impress my system with the fact that this is happening.
That means unofficial weigh-ins between proper weigh-ins can potentially throw you for a loop, and affect your motivation. That's happened to me this week - an unofficial weigh-in showed only slow progress, and a subsequent unofficial weigh-in actually showed no progress, and the temptation then, when you're putting the time in to increase your exercise quotient and very specifically not eating a whole host of things you want to eat, is to feel distinctly pouty and stone-kicky and, not to put too fine a point on it, tantrummy.
I actually expect no progress at all on tomorrow's officiall weigh-in, so any that does come will be a bonus (a psychologically useful thing, this last-minute moving of goalposts to maintain equilibrium in the face of what would otherwise be bad news). The truth, I suspect, is that my body has acclimatized quickly to the things I'm doing, and is sitting there going 'Yeah. What else ya got?'
The additional truth of course is that I've got quite a lot. This has been what I hope it's OK in this absurd Brexitworld we live in to call a Soft Disappearing, at least in terms of its beginnings. I have still yet to clear enough of the carnage of boxes from around my exercise bike to get back on it since this Disappearing began. There have been days this week when deadlines took precedence and I didn't walk. And even on the days when I did, the distance has been sub-10,000 steps (thought I was somewhat heartened to read a news story this week that said the 10,000 step target was pretty much arbitrary).So there are certainly things I can, and will, do to make the Disappearing bite rather harder in the week ahead. But right now, it would be foolish to deny I'm in a bit of a Disappointment Bubble, because almost every time I've tried, I've lost more than this in the first two weeks, and you get used to, and expectant of, that initial bump-down of water-weight to power-surge your ego and push you on.
That hasn't happened yet this time. Perhaps by giving the Disappearing a few more teeth, I can start to impress my system with the fact that this is happening.
Thursday, 25 January 2018
The Quest For Sprouts
'So...whaddaya want to do today?'
'Well, I'm volunteering at the community centre at 2.30. Other than that...' There was a tiny sigh from d. 'We should go shopping.'
'Must we?'
'I can't keep giving you stewed tomatoes every night.'
'You really can. I love 'em.' (I'd eaten two bowlfuls last night, because, y'know, gluttony).
'I know you do. But you'll have rampant acid if I keep feeding you those.'
'Ach...'
All of this was in bed this morning, before either of us had dared peek a toe out from under the duvet.
The wind and driving rain battered against the windows.
'How about sprouts?' I bartered. 'There's always sprouts.'
'There isn't,' murmured d. 'I looked in Tesco yesterday, not a sprout to be had. That's why we'll have to go shopping.'
'Ah, but I tried the Spar,' I said, referring to a chain corner store which also now functions as the local post office. 'They have frozen button sprouts there.'
The wind howled, as if on cue.
'So...we don't have to get dressed and go out there? Not yet, anyway?'
'Nope,' I said. 'I'll go walking later. And as Spar is my witness, we'll never go sproutless again.'
'Awesome,' said d, snuggling under the duvet for another couple of minutes.
So - hoorah for flavour diversity while Disappearing - went walking (it had mellowed significantly by then, though for some reason not unconnected with walking across beaches and streams, I still put me wellies on. The beach clearly counts as a short cut, cos I only managed 7719 steps todday), got sprouts, brought sprouts home, laid them gently in the freezer. We were all out of velvet cushions, sadly, but it was that sort of a moment.
I admit it's not much of a heroic quest, but be honest, if I told you about the dragon waiting to buy postal orders and feast upon the virgins of the village, or the dwarvish slate miners protesting against the new speed restrictions on the road at Wiseman's Bridge, or the Hellmouth under the Lounge coffee bar...well, you'd only think I was making it up, wouldn't you?
'Well, I'm volunteering at the community centre at 2.30. Other than that...' There was a tiny sigh from d. 'We should go shopping.'
'Must we?'
'I can't keep giving you stewed tomatoes every night.'
'You really can. I love 'em.' (I'd eaten two bowlfuls last night, because, y'know, gluttony).
'I know you do. But you'll have rampant acid if I keep feeding you those.'
'Ach...'
All of this was in bed this morning, before either of us had dared peek a toe out from under the duvet.
The wind and driving rain battered against the windows.
'How about sprouts?' I bartered. 'There's always sprouts.'
'There isn't,' murmured d. 'I looked in Tesco yesterday, not a sprout to be had. That's why we'll have to go shopping.'
'Ah, but I tried the Spar,' I said, referring to a chain corner store which also now functions as the local post office. 'They have frozen button sprouts there.'
The wind howled, as if on cue.
'So...we don't have to get dressed and go out there? Not yet, anyway?'
'Nope,' I said. 'I'll go walking later. And as Spar is my witness, we'll never go sproutless again.'
'Awesome,' said d, snuggling under the duvet for another couple of minutes.
So - hoorah for flavour diversity while Disappearing - went walking (it had mellowed significantly by then, though for some reason not unconnected with walking across beaches and streams, I still put me wellies on. The beach clearly counts as a short cut, cos I only managed 7719 steps todday), got sprouts, brought sprouts home, laid them gently in the freezer. We were all out of velvet cushions, sadly, but it was that sort of a moment.
I admit it's not much of a heroic quest, but be honest, if I told you about the dragon waiting to buy postal orders and feast upon the virgins of the village, or the dwarvish slate miners protesting against the new speed restrictions on the road at Wiseman's Bridge, or the Hellmouth under the Lounge coffee bar...well, you'd only think I was making it up, wouldn't you?
Monday, 27 November 2017
Winky
So – hoorah. Started pre-Disappearing today. For the
uninitiated, pre-Disappearing is what happens before the first official
weigh-in, which given that d made a mercy dash to a local hardware store this
afternoon, will now be tomorrow. Pre-Disappearing is nothing terribly special,
it’s just not doing the things I used to do, and doing some new things instead.
Was going to be up in time to growl at larks on the wing and
flick snails off the thorn and all that, but…what can I tell you, I live at the
seaside now, and that seems to bring a lethargy with it that allows larks and
snails to race about the place unimpeded. To be fair, I was up at
6…something-or-other to enjoy that delightful middle-aged need to pee in the
night, but it was still pitch black outside at that time, because it’s November and the sun’s having none of it
either. So, I turned over, listened to an episode of Survivors (a bleak audio
drama about the world after a pandemic plague wipes out more than 90 per cent
of us – check it out, it’s from bigfinish.com, and it’s excellent), and then,
when d woke up, all smiles and bounciness and greeting the day, I felt the need
to humph, turn over and snore. Cos I’m just Mr Personality like that.
So – got a post-lark-and-snail start on the day, but,
determined to make it at least a Disappearing start, got dressed and naffed
officially off on the first walk of the week. Nothing dramatic, nothing overly
taxing, just a slowish walk from Saundersfoot to Wiseman’s Bridge and back, but
my phone (Oracle of All Things as it is), tells me that amounts to 7691 steps,
5.89 km (with a twiddly uphill bit at the end), and a somewhat cracking 543
calories burned – which given that it felt like more or less tokenism, I’m
happy to take before breakfast. It only rained torrentially down on me twice
during the walk too, so that was a result, and something else happened along
the way.
You know how, if you’ve been desperate to pee, and worried
about making it home in time, you reach your bathroom, finally, blessedly, and
it’s like all the pressing concerns of the world condense into one thought –
that you’ve made it, and you’re alright – and as you pee, you smile because
something that was in doubt has been safely achieved, and for those moments,
you don’t care about anything else in the world?
It was like that, only less urinocentric. On the way back
from Wiseman’s Bridge, I felt the sudden need to look out to sea, and did, and
it was like crossing the point of no return, only for a different kind of
relief. I breathed deeply in, and slowly out, and the stress of the last year,
of trying to sell our flat, and having buyer after buyer frustrate us, of being
made redundant right at the point
when we were hoping to start looking at mortgages, of the last undotted i’s and
the last uncrossed t’s that meant further and further delay as the money ran
out and we were flung upon the kindness not of strangers but of friends and
family, all shuddered out of me on that out-breath, and the smile that grew on
my face probably disturbed the ever-living fuck out of an elderly couple coming
the other way with the perverse determination to walk a Dachshund.
So, in stress, if not in actual blubber, I feel lighter
today.
Then, of course, the deep fat fryer arrived, like the Fuck-You
of the Gods.
I’m joking, really – I knew it was coming. d has phases of
learning and re-practice where she feels the call of the culinary deities upon
her shoulders, which is why, for instance, she makes kickass bread, and fudge
and the like. When the money from the flat came through, her single indulgence
was to get a deep fat fryer. It’s not that she’s about to set herself up in
competition with the many exquisite fish fry restaurants in the area – honest.
It’s more that there are things called cannolis, and these other things called
doughnuts, and so there’s a need for deep domestic fat.
Not, now, of course, for me, but in general these things are
needed, and so now, we have one. I’m calling it Winky…or possibly, for reasons
no-one will understand, P’diddle, at least until its presence becomes a giant
mocking outrage in my grease-starved life, which is at least a little down the
line. And at which point, I’ll probably start calling it ‘Pieces of Winky.’
Popped into the local Tesco Express on the way home, and the
attitude adjustment hit me. ‘Ooh, chocolate biscuits,’ I thought. ‘Fuck that,
fool, the chocolate bars are right here,’ said a different, rather more Mr T
part of my brain. Then in floated the Inner Hippy. ‘We don’t do that any more,’
he said, in precisely the tone of voice most likely to get the shit kicked out
of him. The thing is of course, in my recently post-stress relief, he was easy
to listen to. Things will by no means always be that way, but today at least,
in what I like to think of as the real battle
of Man Versus Food…Man won.
Man came home with a box of Weetabix in fact, for easier,
more measurable breakfast cerealing than Rice Krispies allow. To show willing
though, I downsized the size of my Krispie bowl this morning. And didn’t add a
base layer of cookies. And didn’t ‘mount’ the bowl with double cream and sugar,
so as to get that ‘Executive Rice Krispy Treat’ coagulation going on.
No – really.
That’s been my breakfast, and occasionally lunch, for weeks now. You want lessons on force feeding, come to Papa.
Lunch was going to be beans on toast, but as it happened, d
grew increasingly busy with an editing client on the phone, and lunch became
dinner prep. I’ve just eaten two home-made cheeseburgers – as in patties made
from scratch, grated cheese, bought buns, along with two small but gorgeous
potato cakes, which were technically shallow fried, and so which, gorgeous as
they were, I won’t be having again for a while. And some beans, left over from
the beans on toast idea.
And that’s me done. When I finish and post this – broadband
is still non-existent here in our new place, and the wifi’s ropy at best – I’m
going to jump on the exercise bike and pedal for at least half an hour, so as
to begin reintroducing my body and my brain to the idea that this is a thing it
does now. That’s the game for now, I think – reconditioning. No chocolate
biscuits, but a short walk and a short biking session each day, so the brain
and the body start to build new patterns of expectation.
Thankfully, as I say, entirely due to a mercy dash from d,
there will be the first weigh-in tomorrow morning, which is when the
Disappearing starts in earnest.
The deep fat fryer may be winking at me, but tonight at
least, I have a date with a bike.
Disappearing Tip #1: Retrain
your brain.
Disappearing Tip #2:
Yes, this will suck.
Disappearing Tip #3: It’s
supposed to suck. Get through it, and
eventually, it will feel like normality. This is a good thing. Honest.
Tuesday, 14 February 2017
The Border Vista
Surprising news. Happy news. News that, to be fair, my body worked pretty damned hard for.
Today's weigh-in sees me at 18st 2.75. That's a loss of 3.25 pounds on last week, and overall, since we restarted, 25.25 pounds lost in what is now about eight weeks. That leaves us, number-fans, on an aggregate loss of 3.1 pounds per week. Just a smidgen ahead of what's medically advised. Happy to be a smidgen ahead, just for pure swankiness.
18st 2.75 is interesting, because I feel like I can see the border from here - the border between 17 and 18 stone, and I've always said I don't feel like I'm really Disappearing till I get into the 17s. Still feel that way, though I'll be honest with you, losing 2 stone (28 pounds) at the age of 45 has felt harder than the first time I did it at not-quite-40. But I'm not about to kid myself I've been working at it anything like as hard this time round either - the mechansims are still the same, but the process hasn't been anything like as white-hot and sweaty and 'Grrr, lemme at it!' I've approached this time round so far with a kind of older man's sense of inevitability, and a trust in the equations of energy that I've never had before - X+Y=D, where X= less food, Y=more exercise, and D=Disappearing.
Of course, it's possible that today's result owes as much to last night's debilitating stomach-cramps as it does to my somewhat dogged appraoch to food and exercise lately - but on the other hand, I was 18st 3.75 waking up yesterday, so I'm going to be a little smug and say most of the work was already done ahead of last night's distinctly hurried walk around my route.
Speaking of which, as d would say, 'it's gone suitably dark now, you can go walking!'
This is me, getting my walk on. Fewer than three pounds before we start to take this thing seriously again!
Today's weigh-in sees me at 18st 2.75. That's a loss of 3.25 pounds on last week, and overall, since we restarted, 25.25 pounds lost in what is now about eight weeks. That leaves us, number-fans, on an aggregate loss of 3.1 pounds per week. Just a smidgen ahead of what's medically advised. Happy to be a smidgen ahead, just for pure swankiness.
18st 2.75 is interesting, because I feel like I can see the border from here - the border between 17 and 18 stone, and I've always said I don't feel like I'm really Disappearing till I get into the 17s. Still feel that way, though I'll be honest with you, losing 2 stone (28 pounds) at the age of 45 has felt harder than the first time I did it at not-quite-40. But I'm not about to kid myself I've been working at it anything like as hard this time round either - the mechansims are still the same, but the process hasn't been anything like as white-hot and sweaty and 'Grrr, lemme at it!' I've approached this time round so far with a kind of older man's sense of inevitability, and a trust in the equations of energy that I've never had before - X+Y=D, where X= less food, Y=more exercise, and D=Disappearing.
Of course, it's possible that today's result owes as much to last night's debilitating stomach-cramps as it does to my somewhat dogged appraoch to food and exercise lately - but on the other hand, I was 18st 3.75 waking up yesterday, so I'm going to be a little smug and say most of the work was already done ahead of last night's distinctly hurried walk around my route.
Speaking of which, as d would say, 'it's gone suitably dark now, you can go walking!'
This is me, getting my walk on. Fewer than three pounds before we start to take this thing seriously again!
Wednesday, 8 February 2017
The Secret Weapon Retention
Yesterday, I went walking at night, as has become my habit after the end of the day-job. Found a slaughtered vaccuum cleaner sprawled on the road, just waiting for a very bored Valleys detective to draw a white chalk outline round it. And then bam!
Got affected by the dreadful stomach cramps again. Absolutely thought at no fewer than four points I was going to be overwhelmed by them.
Jusssst got home and...unff. Of course, the obsessive Disappearing instinct says "Well, if you're going to have crippling stomach cramps, having them on a Monday night is the best time in the week to have them." Honestly, I'm not sure it was worth it.
This morning though, I weighed in at 18st 6. Down 1.75 pounds, pre-bathroom (but of course post-last night, so that's fair enough).
Been rather a heavy food day today - cereal breakfast, French onion soup and grilled cheese lunch, spaghetti and home-made meatballs for dinner, and, which is excess beyond the dreams of Croesus, oatmeal for supper.
In between which, I sat on the couch and moaned.
"I really don't want to do this tonight."
"So don't," said d. "Do two tomorrow to make up for it."
"Mmmph," I said, thinking of the palaver of getting up before work to do one iteration, and then a second one later on.
I know, I know, I was Captain Big-Balls, thinking of doing 20,000 steps per day - and I will get back to that, because I'm pretty determined to do the 500 Mile Challenge. But the reality is, right now, work is a big priority, and I can do one iteration (roughly 10,000 steps) a day as part of my carved-out schedule, but two is probably pushing it unless I re-arrange the priorities of my day. Also, not to be over-cynical, last week, pushing one iteration to two shocked my systen into giving me a five pound loss. If I can keep losing at a slower rate, while dropping back to one iteration, it allows me to keep the second iteration in my back pocket the next time the system needs a goose.
So, grumbling and worrying about a recurrence of the cramps, I headed out the door. Did my 10,000 steps, thankfully without incident.
Tomorrow, who knows? Let's see what comes. But this has been a semi-successful (if slightly behind my 2 pound weekly expectation) weigh-in - still going in the right direction, at least.
Got affected by the dreadful stomach cramps again. Absolutely thought at no fewer than four points I was going to be overwhelmed by them.
Jusssst got home and...unff. Of course, the obsessive Disappearing instinct says "Well, if you're going to have crippling stomach cramps, having them on a Monday night is the best time in the week to have them." Honestly, I'm not sure it was worth it.
This morning though, I weighed in at 18st 6. Down 1.75 pounds, pre-bathroom (but of course post-last night, so that's fair enough).
Been rather a heavy food day today - cereal breakfast, French onion soup and grilled cheese lunch, spaghetti and home-made meatballs for dinner, and, which is excess beyond the dreams of Croesus, oatmeal for supper.
In between which, I sat on the couch and moaned.
"I really don't want to do this tonight."
"So don't," said d. "Do two tomorrow to make up for it."
"Mmmph," I said, thinking of the palaver of getting up before work to do one iteration, and then a second one later on.
I know, I know, I was Captain Big-Balls, thinking of doing 20,000 steps per day - and I will get back to that, because I'm pretty determined to do the 500 Mile Challenge. But the reality is, right now, work is a big priority, and I can do one iteration (roughly 10,000 steps) a day as part of my carved-out schedule, but two is probably pushing it unless I re-arrange the priorities of my day. Also, not to be over-cynical, last week, pushing one iteration to two shocked my systen into giving me a five pound loss. If I can keep losing at a slower rate, while dropping back to one iteration, it allows me to keep the second iteration in my back pocket the next time the system needs a goose.
So, grumbling and worrying about a recurrence of the cramps, I headed out the door. Did my 10,000 steps, thankfully without incident.
Tomorrow, who knows? Let's see what comes. But this has been a semi-successful (if slightly behind my 2 pound weekly expectation) weigh-in - still going in the right direction, at least.
Friday, 3 February 2017
Cometh The Rainmaker
Tonight was weird.
Just weird.
Came home from a haircut and it started to rain, just as I was considering going walking.
'You total and utter bastards!' I fake-yelled to the sky, to the raindrops that had started falling on my head.
'Well, isn't it good that you still have work to do?' asked d, breezily.
I scowled at the sky. Pursed my lips. 'Yes, dear,' I agreed, and, without really lowering my eyes from the rain clouds (and with the screamingly logical result that I nearly fell in through the door), I followed her in.
Did work. Because...well, what else is there to do?
Time passed, and then more time was going to pass and I couldn't put the damn thing off any more - we'd had dinner, and I'm still in the game of trying a) to walk after eating my evening meal, and b) not eating after that until breakfast time.
Got my ass out the door - the rain had stopped. Result.
I got past the gas station that acts as my first landmark. And then the rain decided I was clearly serious about this thing, and decided to fall on me. More or less all at once. I normally wouldn't do this, but I actually hid in a bus shelter, trying to outsmart the rain.
Now, I swear this is true. I was drenched. Just drenched. But looking out from my hiding place, nothing was falling. Seriously, there was water on the streets, but none of it was falling, hitting the streets. I stepped out - wallop. More rain, more me - just call me Spongebob. I stood there, getting soaked, still staring at the floor, where no rain was hitting the floor. Clearly, at this point, I was the biggest thing on the planet that wasn't actually the planet. I was the Earth's umbrella, saving all the vulnerable ground from getting wet.
'Fuck it then,' I said, out loud, striding on into a maelstrom the like of which made The Tempest look like a toddler's pee-stream. The street? Still nothing. Allll me.
There was nothing to do but keep walking. By the time I got to the back stretch of the walk, which goes through a lot of relatively deserted streets, there was only one thing to do. I turned the dial of my iPod to 80s soundtracks, and started singing and dancing to some of the best from those days. I Footloosed, I Back To The Futured, I Lost Boyed. I sang, and danced, and spun, and spread my warms to the wind and the rain and I did the whole Singin' In The Rain thing, treating the rain like a personal shower. I recommend it - it's deeply therapeutic, especially in these hideous days. Turning the whole experience of being pissed on from on high into something through which you can sing, and dance, and not care about the rain. I recommend it.
Of course, eventually, on the way round my route, it stopped raining again. And then, as I was close to home, it started again, and I didn't have the right distracting music, and the rain was relentless, and cold to the bone, and dispiriting. The point is obvious of course - ultimately the rain gets in. But while the rain is getting in, if, for just a little while, you can sing and dance and laugh too, you'll feel better. Stronger. Better and more prepared for the times when it gets in. OK, it won't keep you dry, but remembering that you can sing and dance and laugh as well as feeling the chill of the rain reminds you that the rain is not the be-all and end-all. That its power is ephemeral. That it can only get you down while you let it.
And then you come home, and get warm, and keep safe from the rain in which you can't dance. And a new day comes.
Just weird.
Came home from a haircut and it started to rain, just as I was considering going walking.
'You total and utter bastards!' I fake-yelled to the sky, to the raindrops that had started falling on my head.
'Well, isn't it good that you still have work to do?' asked d, breezily.
I scowled at the sky. Pursed my lips. 'Yes, dear,' I agreed, and, without really lowering my eyes from the rain clouds (and with the screamingly logical result that I nearly fell in through the door), I followed her in.
Did work. Because...well, what else is there to do?
Time passed, and then more time was going to pass and I couldn't put the damn thing off any more - we'd had dinner, and I'm still in the game of trying a) to walk after eating my evening meal, and b) not eating after that until breakfast time.
Got my ass out the door - the rain had stopped. Result.
I got past the gas station that acts as my first landmark. And then the rain decided I was clearly serious about this thing, and decided to fall on me. More or less all at once. I normally wouldn't do this, but I actually hid in a bus shelter, trying to outsmart the rain.
Now, I swear this is true. I was drenched. Just drenched. But looking out from my hiding place, nothing was falling. Seriously, there was water on the streets, but none of it was falling, hitting the streets. I stepped out - wallop. More rain, more me - just call me Spongebob. I stood there, getting soaked, still staring at the floor, where no rain was hitting the floor. Clearly, at this point, I was the biggest thing on the planet that wasn't actually the planet. I was the Earth's umbrella, saving all the vulnerable ground from getting wet.
'Fuck it then,' I said, out loud, striding on into a maelstrom the like of which made The Tempest look like a toddler's pee-stream. The street? Still nothing. Allll me.
There was nothing to do but keep walking. By the time I got to the back stretch of the walk, which goes through a lot of relatively deserted streets, there was only one thing to do. I turned the dial of my iPod to 80s soundtracks, and started singing and dancing to some of the best from those days. I Footloosed, I Back To The Futured, I Lost Boyed. I sang, and danced, and spun, and spread my warms to the wind and the rain and I did the whole Singin' In The Rain thing, treating the rain like a personal shower. I recommend it - it's deeply therapeutic, especially in these hideous days. Turning the whole experience of being pissed on from on high into something through which you can sing, and dance, and not care about the rain. I recommend it.
Of course, eventually, on the way round my route, it stopped raining again. And then, as I was close to home, it started again, and I didn't have the right distracting music, and the rain was relentless, and cold to the bone, and dispiriting. The point is obvious of course - ultimately the rain gets in. But while the rain is getting in, if, for just a little while, you can sing and dance and laugh too, you'll feel better. Stronger. Better and more prepared for the times when it gets in. OK, it won't keep you dry, but remembering that you can sing and dance and laugh as well as feeling the chill of the rain reminds you that the rain is not the be-all and end-all. That its power is ephemeral. That it can only get you down while you let it.
And then you come home, and get warm, and keep safe from the rain in which you can't dance. And a new day comes.
Tuesday, 31 January 2017
Get Thee Behind Me, Milkshake
You remember that whole rant about how I walked in the rain, rather than using the brand, spanking new treadmill that's sitting in my comparatively warm, comparatively dry office?
Yyyyyeah, today I did my whole 10,000 step route in the absolute pissing rain. So - clearly, that works. I feel like I've just done 5,000 steps of walking, and 5,00 strokes of swimming. I may need an intervention, or something like a Post-It stuck to my forehead or somesuch, with the words "That's Why You Have The Treadmill, Dickwad!" on it.
Of course, if I had that, one, I wouldn't be able to read it, and two, it'd fall off in the pissing rain, so...maybe a tattoo on the inside of my retina or instead.
Mind you, I walked in the rain last night too. Came home, sank into a hot bath to warm up.
"You're right, you know?" said d just as we were about to go to bed.
"Really?" That seemed so massively unlikely I had to check. I wasn't sure what I could possibly have been right about, but I was willing to take it.
"Yes, really."
"Good then."
"Those Nazi Scales are messed-up."
"Oh," I said. "Yeah?"
"Yeah, they're all over the place. I just got on them four times and got four wildly different readings. Think they need a new battery or something."
"Ah. Cool then. When they tell me I'm a monstrous Disappearing failure in the morning, I'll tell them to go fuck themselves."
"Yes dear. That'll be fun for you."
And so we went to sleep. As I mentioned, I was really rather annoyed with the way the week had gone - yesterday when I woke up, I weighed in at 18st 12.5, which pissed me off because at various points in this week, I've seen 18st 7, and I've walked most days this week and done nothing especially out of the ordinary, so the bounce-back felt monumentally unfair.
As it happens though, a lot of walking yesterday and a relatively liquid diet along with it, and I weighed in this morning at an official 18st 7.75 pounds.
So that's one unfortunate fart away from a stone and a half (21 pounds) lost since a couple of weeks before Christmas. If nothing else, that proves to my body I'm not just dicking about with this this time. It also means I'm seven pounds and a fart away from the 18 stone border, which is the point at which I start to feel like I'm actually Disappearing. What that means is that it's gone from hard work to second nature. Which in turn means it's things that are first nature that can still, sometimes, trip me up.
Last night, prior to the Nazi Scale conversation but after marching up and down Cardiff Queen Street again, this time in protest at the Orange Obscenity's sudden anti-human clampdown on entry to the US, d had asked me to pick her up a couple of hot dogs from Five Guys and bring them home. No problem, no drama - went, put the order in...
...and then time tunnelled around me. I looked across at the Five Guys milkshake menu, and oh my ever-loving gods, but they sounded good. Having subsisted most of the day on one bowl of oatmeal and many coffees, and clocking up s faintly disappointing 17,000-odd steps, it was the most natural thing in the world to go "Oh, and a malted milk peanut butter shake, no cream..."
I heard myself say it. Heard my brain scream 'Wwwwwwhat the hell? This is what we don't do any more? Whaddaya dooooooinnnnnng?!' And I had the argument with myself - 'Fuck you, it's liquid. It's just a liquid, where's the bad, Oatmeal-Boy? Who can tell you not to do a thing? You know how good they taste. Surely 17,000 steps earns you a shake, right?'
The time tunnel collapsed. The server was looking at my face expectantly.
"Hmm?" I said, having one of those moments where you genuinely don't know if you've said something or only thought it.
"Is that everything for you?" he asked again. I glanced over at the milkshake menu again, felt the longing, the craving. Swallowed.
"Err...yeah. Thanks." And the moment passed.
Or almost - I had five other time tunnel moments while waiting for the order to be delivered, to the extent that I almost tried to take someone else's food when it came out before mine, so keen was I to stop my brain from dangling the icy, creamy pleasure in my path, and point out that there was no line, and that I could just nip across and add a shake to the order, no problem.
Sigh. See? Beware of your first nature - it's the primal pleasure principle and the idea of denying it is where the idea of 'sin' comes from. But, at least for this day, the 'demon' Milkshake didn't trip me up, which means the erratic Nazi Scales this morning were relatively kind, and on we jolly well go. I'd like to tell you the next stop is 18 stone, but it probaby, in all honesty, isn't. There'll probably be some amount of dicking about in the upper half of the 18s before I start to make progress to things like 18st 4. Then, in all likelihood, there'll be endless faffing to get down beneath the border of 18. But the goal at least is to a) get beneath 18st 7, and then b) get beneath 18 stone.
Yyyyyeah, today I did my whole 10,000 step route in the absolute pissing rain. So - clearly, that works. I feel like I've just done 5,000 steps of walking, and 5,00 strokes of swimming. I may need an intervention, or something like a Post-It stuck to my forehead or somesuch, with the words "That's Why You Have The Treadmill, Dickwad!" on it.
Of course, if I had that, one, I wouldn't be able to read it, and two, it'd fall off in the pissing rain, so...maybe a tattoo on the inside of my retina or instead.
Mind you, I walked in the rain last night too. Came home, sank into a hot bath to warm up.
"You're right, you know?" said d just as we were about to go to bed.
"Really?" That seemed so massively unlikely I had to check. I wasn't sure what I could possibly have been right about, but I was willing to take it.
"Yes, really."
"Good then."
"Those Nazi Scales are messed-up."
"Oh," I said. "Yeah?"
"Yeah, they're all over the place. I just got on them four times and got four wildly different readings. Think they need a new battery or something."
"Ah. Cool then. When they tell me I'm a monstrous Disappearing failure in the morning, I'll tell them to go fuck themselves."
"Yes dear. That'll be fun for you."
And so we went to sleep. As I mentioned, I was really rather annoyed with the way the week had gone - yesterday when I woke up, I weighed in at 18st 12.5, which pissed me off because at various points in this week, I've seen 18st 7, and I've walked most days this week and done nothing especially out of the ordinary, so the bounce-back felt monumentally unfair.
As it happens though, a lot of walking yesterday and a relatively liquid diet along with it, and I weighed in this morning at an official 18st 7.75 pounds.
So that's one unfortunate fart away from a stone and a half (21 pounds) lost since a couple of weeks before Christmas. If nothing else, that proves to my body I'm not just dicking about with this this time. It also means I'm seven pounds and a fart away from the 18 stone border, which is the point at which I start to feel like I'm actually Disappearing. What that means is that it's gone from hard work to second nature. Which in turn means it's things that are first nature that can still, sometimes, trip me up.
Last night, prior to the Nazi Scale conversation but after marching up and down Cardiff Queen Street again, this time in protest at the Orange Obscenity's sudden anti-human clampdown on entry to the US, d had asked me to pick her up a couple of hot dogs from Five Guys and bring them home. No problem, no drama - went, put the order in...
...and then time tunnelled around me. I looked across at the Five Guys milkshake menu, and oh my ever-loving gods, but they sounded good. Having subsisted most of the day on one bowl of oatmeal and many coffees, and clocking up s faintly disappointing 17,000-odd steps, it was the most natural thing in the world to go "Oh, and a malted milk peanut butter shake, no cream..."
I heard myself say it. Heard my brain scream 'Wwwwwwhat the hell? This is what we don't do any more? Whaddaya dooooooinnnnnng?!' And I had the argument with myself - 'Fuck you, it's liquid. It's just a liquid, where's the bad, Oatmeal-Boy? Who can tell you not to do a thing? You know how good they taste. Surely 17,000 steps earns you a shake, right?'
The time tunnel collapsed. The server was looking at my face expectantly.
"Hmm?" I said, having one of those moments where you genuinely don't know if you've said something or only thought it.
"Is that everything for you?" he asked again. I glanced over at the milkshake menu again, felt the longing, the craving. Swallowed.
"Err...yeah. Thanks." And the moment passed.
Or almost - I had five other time tunnel moments while waiting for the order to be delivered, to the extent that I almost tried to take someone else's food when it came out before mine, so keen was I to stop my brain from dangling the icy, creamy pleasure in my path, and point out that there was no line, and that I could just nip across and add a shake to the order, no problem.
Sigh. See? Beware of your first nature - it's the primal pleasure principle and the idea of denying it is where the idea of 'sin' comes from. But, at least for this day, the 'demon' Milkshake didn't trip me up, which means the erratic Nazi Scales this morning were relatively kind, and on we jolly well go. I'd like to tell you the next stop is 18 stone, but it probaby, in all honesty, isn't. There'll probably be some amount of dicking about in the upper half of the 18s before I start to make progress to things like 18st 4. Then, in all likelihood, there'll be endless faffing to get down beneath the border of 18. But the goal at least is to a) get beneath 18st 7, and then b) get beneath 18 stone.
Sunday, 29 January 2017
The Treadmill Obstinacy
See, here's the thing.
Since we moved house, we haven't been able to find the charger for my exercise bike. It's also been December and January, so technically, in Wales, some of the most meteorologically unsound months to be exercising outdoors.
But I own a treadmill now. My pal Harry, having decided he wants to get double-hard bastard-serious about physique and suchlike, has joined a gym. And in so doing, he decided to free up some of his living space by giving away his treadmill. I pounced on that offer, because - free Disappearing equipment, and now we have the space for it, where's the bad. But he and his wife Laura delivered it to us a few weeks ago now (d basically tied them to their chairs and fed them cake). Since when, it's sat there in my office, looking up at me with lugubrious imaginary spaniel eyes, radiating dejection because I've not yet got on it and put it through its paces.
In fact, just a couple of days ago, Harry asked if I'd used it yet.
'Been getting out and about to walk,' I explained, 'if for no other reason than I can get some outside air. Besides, it's been fine. Treadmill's for when it pisses down.'
'Ah,' he said. 'I see the logic there.'
Which would be fine, except then there's today.
Today it was grim here. Not exactly pouring down, but wet and mizzly. Could have walked directly after lunch, but chose not to. Was even contemplating not walking at all, and just cracking on with the work I had to do. But as evening fell, I decided to go walking after all.
Long before I got halfway, slogging it through the persistent Russian Hooker drizzle and the attendant sapping of the spirit to go on, I decided I couldn't do the full usual route. Took a right when I usually take a left, and subsequently ended up doing far less by way of walking than I should have - a mere 700-odd steps.
The thing that's confusing about that of course is that the treadmill's there, in my nice, comparatively warm, dry office, just waiting for me to get on it on days when the weather's objectionable.
Instead of which, I chose to go out, get soaked, lose the will to walk and ended up doing significantly fewer steps than I either would have or should have. And I still have to endure the treadmill's 'You don't love me' eyes. Sometimes, clearly, I'm too stupid and too obstinate for my own good. That needs to change.
Overall, I'm really rather irritated by the way the week has gone, if I'm honest. At some points this week, I've been four whole pounds lighter than I was when I did this morning's unofficial weigh-in, which is a sucky admission with just two sleeps before the next official weigh-in. At corresponding points to the weightloss though, it should be noted, I was doing over 20,000 steps per day, and not eating after the last of them. That hasn't been the case for the last three days, and the significant weighloss has rebounded with alarming alacrity as the effort has given way to available time and, today, drizzle.
Tomorrow offers me the chance to get back into something like a good routine. I have the morning off, so can wake naturally, and get my first 12,000 steps done. Then there's a meeting I have to phone in for in the afternoon (see my previous entry, where I got the day of that meeting wrong), and then there's a two-hour protest march in Cardiff in the evening, which I'm thinking of spending £8 of train fare to go to simply to add my voice and legs to the resistance to the unPresident's obscene policies of prejudice. Not exactly wise, nine long-ass days to payday, but if £8 and a couple of hours is the difference between resisting and not resisting, I can find it. Plus, from a purely Disappearing point of view, it allows me to get a couple of hours' more walking in.
So there's the chance of a positive upset before Tuesday, but not any particular likelihood of news as earth-shatteringly good as I had reason to hope for a few days ago. Which is utterly irksome, but there we go. Perhaps next time I get the chance to stay indoors and do some damned treadmill work, I'll be altogether less snooty about the whole thing. Steps are steps are steps, after all...
Since we moved house, we haven't been able to find the charger for my exercise bike. It's also been December and January, so technically, in Wales, some of the most meteorologically unsound months to be exercising outdoors.
But I own a treadmill now. My pal Harry, having decided he wants to get double-hard bastard-serious about physique and suchlike, has joined a gym. And in so doing, he decided to free up some of his living space by giving away his treadmill. I pounced on that offer, because - free Disappearing equipment, and now we have the space for it, where's the bad. But he and his wife Laura delivered it to us a few weeks ago now (d basically tied them to their chairs and fed them cake). Since when, it's sat there in my office, looking up at me with lugubrious imaginary spaniel eyes, radiating dejection because I've not yet got on it and put it through its paces.
In fact, just a couple of days ago, Harry asked if I'd used it yet.
'Been getting out and about to walk,' I explained, 'if for no other reason than I can get some outside air. Besides, it's been fine. Treadmill's for when it pisses down.'
'Ah,' he said. 'I see the logic there.'
Which would be fine, except then there's today.
Today it was grim here. Not exactly pouring down, but wet and mizzly. Could have walked directly after lunch, but chose not to. Was even contemplating not walking at all, and just cracking on with the work I had to do. But as evening fell, I decided to go walking after all.
Long before I got halfway, slogging it through the persistent Russian Hooker drizzle and the attendant sapping of the spirit to go on, I decided I couldn't do the full usual route. Took a right when I usually take a left, and subsequently ended up doing far less by way of walking than I should have - a mere 700-odd steps.
The thing that's confusing about that of course is that the treadmill's there, in my nice, comparatively warm, dry office, just waiting for me to get on it on days when the weather's objectionable.
Instead of which, I chose to go out, get soaked, lose the will to walk and ended up doing significantly fewer steps than I either would have or should have. And I still have to endure the treadmill's 'You don't love me' eyes. Sometimes, clearly, I'm too stupid and too obstinate for my own good. That needs to change.
Overall, I'm really rather irritated by the way the week has gone, if I'm honest. At some points this week, I've been four whole pounds lighter than I was when I did this morning's unofficial weigh-in, which is a sucky admission with just two sleeps before the next official weigh-in. At corresponding points to the weightloss though, it should be noted, I was doing over 20,000 steps per day, and not eating after the last of them. That hasn't been the case for the last three days, and the significant weighloss has rebounded with alarming alacrity as the effort has given way to available time and, today, drizzle.
Tomorrow offers me the chance to get back into something like a good routine. I have the morning off, so can wake naturally, and get my first 12,000 steps done. Then there's a meeting I have to phone in for in the afternoon (see my previous entry, where I got the day of that meeting wrong), and then there's a two-hour protest march in Cardiff in the evening, which I'm thinking of spending £8 of train fare to go to simply to add my voice and legs to the resistance to the unPresident's obscene policies of prejudice. Not exactly wise, nine long-ass days to payday, but if £8 and a couple of hours is the difference between resisting and not resisting, I can find it. Plus, from a purely Disappearing point of view, it allows me to get a couple of hours' more walking in.
So there's the chance of a positive upset before Tuesday, but not any particular likelihood of news as earth-shatteringly good as I had reason to hope for a few days ago. Which is utterly irksome, but there we go. Perhaps next time I get the chance to stay indoors and do some damned treadmill work, I'll be altogether less snooty about the whole thing. Steps are steps are steps, after all...
Friday, 27 January 2017
The Temporal Schism
So - good, bold idea yesterday, this whole 500 mile thing. What's become clear since then is that it's not the walking that'll be the issue with it. It's time management.
Yesterday, I posted the blog, but the day-job ran through what would normally be my lunch hour.
'What are you gonna do? Gonna go?' asked d, as 3 o'clock came and went.
'Absolutely,' I said, all grim determination and fullness of my new idea.
'Annnd how long does it take?'
'What, once-round my route?'
'Yep.'
'Aaaabout two hours.'
'So you've missed a lunchtime slot. And you can't go now cos it's the middle of the afternoon, so you're looking at 5 o'clock. Plus two hours. What are you gonna do? Go round to get your 10,000 steps, come in, have dinner, go out and do another one? You're gonna be walking around this town at 10 o'clock?'
'Yeah, if that's what's necessary,' I said, still fired up with my idea and my cause.
'Cos that's not obsessive at all.'
'It's what's...necessary,' I said, coming back to the word. I have a staggering capacity to re-frame the world in black and white, the necessary and the unnecessary, when the focus comes over me, as those familiar with the Disappearing Man will already understand. And yes, sometimes that leads me to excesses of selfishness that can affect those who love me. Cos yeah, sometimes, I'm a blinkered bastard.
'It's not necessary,' she said. 'It's you formalising some of your slavish tendencies. Must Walk Twice is not a holy mantra you know? What's next? Three times?'
Now - there are times when I should be jocular, annnnd then there are other times. 'Only reason to go to three would be to cut the middle one down to a single hour,' I said.
'Mm-hmm. Slavish.'
'I just...it seems to be working for me, baby. I don't want to stop it working.'
She came and kissed me. 'You're a numpty,' she said. 'I don't want to stop it working either. I just don't want you to become some obsessive walking zombie.'
I held her tight. 'Won't. Promise. Just wanna get my steps in.'
'So go once, and do a different route. Do what you feel you need to do, baby, just...come home and be.'
'I will baby. I always will...'
'Right,' she said. 'Best get on then - you've got two hours of money to earn before you turn into the Happy Wanderer.' She kissed me again, and left me to it.
Come 5 o'clock, I went a-happy wandering. My usual route is uphill to one roundabout, uphill to a second roundabout, then left through Dowlais and round in a biggish circle. I go that way, turning left because the alternatives are odd. You can turn right, and go in an entirely different circle, or you can go up again. If you go up the third up, you're almost committing to a number of follow-on ups, because my town is built out of hills on top of hills. Last night I walked the ups. All the way up through several high horizons, all the way to the Asda store that sits at the top of the town, looking down over all our lives like King Retail on his blasted heath of a throne.
Given that it's so dauntingly high, and takes so much schlepping to get to, I was surprised to find it was only 5,500 steps from home to Asda. That meant I'd have to go there and back twice to get my 20,000 steps in. Having got up there, I ruled that out. Came back in a very convoluted way, inolving going up several blind alleys that I didn't know were blind alleys. The long and the short of it is that I ended up doing 21,000 steps not as two chunks, but as one.
That's not something I'd recommend. Came home and had to bathe my feet. But crucially perhaps, doing it in one chunk, while technically doable, was neither time-wise nor especially diet-friendly, because when I got back, we ate dinner, falling back into the pattern that previously had me not moving down.
This morning, in my obligatory unofficial weigh-in, that was refelected by a bump in the figures on the Nazi Scales, the 21,000 steps almost negated by their place in the day, prior to eating dinner.
Today, timing continued to be my own personal bastard. For reasons you don't need to know about, I'd booked half of today off, plus all day Monday and Tuesday. Half day today because I had a big meeting to phone in for today at two. After last night's stepathon, I slept in massively, found myself getting to my desk just a little before midday. Not quite enough time to do my walk and get back for my meeting, so worked on some editing in the meantime.
Two o'clock came, and I sat ready for the call.
Two thirty came, and I started calling - my boss, everyone else in the office...Texted, sent emails and Skype-messages. Was I missing the meeting?
At three o'clock I got a text back from the boss. "Meeting 2pm MONDAY. At a funeral right now."
Soooo that was a screw-up, then. Way to look like a psycho stalkerboy with no sbility to read a calendar. Class.
Went out eventually to do my walk, but couldn't, tonight, do more than my single revolution, and what now feels like a relatively paltry 10,000 steps, because on the way round, I was struck by stomach cramps again. Made it home safely but am getting more than a little peeved with the digestive roller-coaster of this thing.
And of course, my screw up meant that again, I did my walking, came home, ate, and then was sedentary until the point of going to bed. Need to master the now-unfamiliar art of of morning walking again, to give myself a jump on the day and its exercise-needs if I'm to achieve my goals here.
Onward then...
Yesterday, I posted the blog, but the day-job ran through what would normally be my lunch hour.
'What are you gonna do? Gonna go?' asked d, as 3 o'clock came and went.
'Absolutely,' I said, all grim determination and fullness of my new idea.
'Annnd how long does it take?'
'What, once-round my route?'
'Yep.'
'Aaaabout two hours.'
'So you've missed a lunchtime slot. And you can't go now cos it's the middle of the afternoon, so you're looking at 5 o'clock. Plus two hours. What are you gonna do? Go round to get your 10,000 steps, come in, have dinner, go out and do another one? You're gonna be walking around this town at 10 o'clock?'
'Yeah, if that's what's necessary,' I said, still fired up with my idea and my cause.
'Cos that's not obsessive at all.'
'It's what's...necessary,' I said, coming back to the word. I have a staggering capacity to re-frame the world in black and white, the necessary and the unnecessary, when the focus comes over me, as those familiar with the Disappearing Man will already understand. And yes, sometimes that leads me to excesses of selfishness that can affect those who love me. Cos yeah, sometimes, I'm a blinkered bastard.
'It's not necessary,' she said. 'It's you formalising some of your slavish tendencies. Must Walk Twice is not a holy mantra you know? What's next? Three times?'
Now - there are times when I should be jocular, annnnd then there are other times. 'Only reason to go to three would be to cut the middle one down to a single hour,' I said.
'Mm-hmm. Slavish.'
'I just...it seems to be working for me, baby. I don't want to stop it working.'
She came and kissed me. 'You're a numpty,' she said. 'I don't want to stop it working either. I just don't want you to become some obsessive walking zombie.'
I held her tight. 'Won't. Promise. Just wanna get my steps in.'
'So go once, and do a different route. Do what you feel you need to do, baby, just...come home and be.'
'I will baby. I always will...'
'Right,' she said. 'Best get on then - you've got two hours of money to earn before you turn into the Happy Wanderer.' She kissed me again, and left me to it.
Come 5 o'clock, I went a-happy wandering. My usual route is uphill to one roundabout, uphill to a second roundabout, then left through Dowlais and round in a biggish circle. I go that way, turning left because the alternatives are odd. You can turn right, and go in an entirely different circle, or you can go up again. If you go up the third up, you're almost committing to a number of follow-on ups, because my town is built out of hills on top of hills. Last night I walked the ups. All the way up through several high horizons, all the way to the Asda store that sits at the top of the town, looking down over all our lives like King Retail on his blasted heath of a throne.
Given that it's so dauntingly high, and takes so much schlepping to get to, I was surprised to find it was only 5,500 steps from home to Asda. That meant I'd have to go there and back twice to get my 20,000 steps in. Having got up there, I ruled that out. Came back in a very convoluted way, inolving going up several blind alleys that I didn't know were blind alleys. The long and the short of it is that I ended up doing 21,000 steps not as two chunks, but as one.
That's not something I'd recommend. Came home and had to bathe my feet. But crucially perhaps, doing it in one chunk, while technically doable, was neither time-wise nor especially diet-friendly, because when I got back, we ate dinner, falling back into the pattern that previously had me not moving down.
This morning, in my obligatory unofficial weigh-in, that was refelected by a bump in the figures on the Nazi Scales, the 21,000 steps almost negated by their place in the day, prior to eating dinner.
Today, timing continued to be my own personal bastard. For reasons you don't need to know about, I'd booked half of today off, plus all day Monday and Tuesday. Half day today because I had a big meeting to phone in for today at two. After last night's stepathon, I slept in massively, found myself getting to my desk just a little before midday. Not quite enough time to do my walk and get back for my meeting, so worked on some editing in the meantime.
Two o'clock came, and I sat ready for the call.
Two thirty came, and I started calling - my boss, everyone else in the office...Texted, sent emails and Skype-messages. Was I missing the meeting?
At three o'clock I got a text back from the boss. "Meeting 2pm MONDAY. At a funeral right now."
Soooo that was a screw-up, then. Way to look like a psycho stalkerboy with no sbility to read a calendar. Class.
Went out eventually to do my walk, but couldn't, tonight, do more than my single revolution, and what now feels like a relatively paltry 10,000 steps, because on the way round, I was struck by stomach cramps again. Made it home safely but am getting more than a little peeved with the digestive roller-coaster of this thing.
And of course, my screw up meant that again, I did my walking, came home, ate, and then was sedentary until the point of going to bed. Need to master the now-unfamiliar art of of morning walking again, to give myself a jump on the day and its exercise-needs if I'm to achieve my goals here.
Onward then...
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