Unff...
Went walking down the Taff Trail this morning.
Well, that hurt. That hurt real good. While feeling a certain smugness about finally having got off my ass and done something in the world of exercise in 2013, it certainly brought it home to me exactly how far back I've fallen: I haven't walked down the Trail while being this heavy. I can't swear to this without...y'know...doing actual research...but I think the last time I was this size, I was walking from Kensington to Tottenham Court Road each work day (2 miles), and doing an hour of biking a day. So today, walking six miles straight out of the hat was something of a jump-start, and my back pretty much strained and went "What the fuck, dude?"
Good. Can't imagine the kind of swearing I'll get from it tomorrow, with the yoga/boot camp double - if I go ahead with that particular double.
Went up to see Ma at 4pm, as she came home today. She was understandably knackered. d and I walked home, and stopped at a pub for a quick dinner. Turned out to be sausage and mash. Roughly 800 calories (thank you Weatherspoons for the handy information). That meant that at that point, I was still in calorific obeisance to the number-per-day to lose a couple of pounds. When we came home, we were happily sitting watching the Simpsons (I had to - Homer was playing Jesus. Homer's one finger and a case of yellow jaundice away from being me, so it was a must-watch!), when I felt a bizarre rumbling.
I ran up the stairs, getting to the bathroom just in time for the entire bottom half of my body to apparently rupture. Pouring would be too gentle a word for what happened to me. Gushing too.
Tell you what - have you ever tried a power shower? That amazing water pressure that knocks you slightly backwards? Was kinda like that, only downwards.
Apparently, sausage and mash? Not so good for me right now. Note to self for future reference. No, no and Hellno...
(shudders).
And on to the morning - back to work, and Disappearing Boot Camp...
Monday, 7 January 2013
Sunday, 6 January 2013
The Glitter Day Nullity
A truly odd day, this. Firstly, the day after d's birthday. Secondly, one of the only days in living memory where we didn't have to do anything immediately on jumping out of bed. Result - no jumping out of bed. Instead, we took advantage of a recent furniture shift-around and one of my Christmas gifts - watched a couple of episodes of Smash on DVD, while snuggling.
Then, when eventually we got up, something about the mood shifted. d said she felt like today was her real birthday, and, because a few of her cards yesterday were covered in glitter, we dubbed it Glitter Day, a kind of extension on the birthday.
That said, we couldn't seem to find out motivation to do anything. We lay around for a little while longer, then decided doing anything was probably better than doing nothing. So we went shopping, and oddly enough, that simple act got us out of the null feeling of the day. I went to do some writing, and d to some cooking.
The thing about writing - and I would assume about cooking too, or any other creative endeavour - is that time does rather fly when you get on with it. So no, as yet, I still haven't made it back onto the bike since we shifted it out of the office and put it in the bedroom. Still - a day of relatively restrained consumption, so hopefully, a day with no particular harm done.
Tomorrow, Ma comes home from her sister's place and re-assumes command of her own domain.
And Tuesday brings a return to work for me, and a first toe-dip into the worlds of yoga and boot camp.
And so the 2013 arm of the Disappearing Man begins, from glitter and nullity to stretching and severe pain.
Then, when eventually we got up, something about the mood shifted. d said she felt like today was her real birthday, and, because a few of her cards yesterday were covered in glitter, we dubbed it Glitter Day, a kind of extension on the birthday.
That said, we couldn't seem to find out motivation to do anything. We lay around for a little while longer, then decided doing anything was probably better than doing nothing. So we went shopping, and oddly enough, that simple act got us out of the null feeling of the day. I went to do some writing, and d to some cooking.
The thing about writing - and I would assume about cooking too, or any other creative endeavour - is that time does rather fly when you get on with it. So no, as yet, I still haven't made it back onto the bike since we shifted it out of the office and put it in the bedroom. Still - a day of relatively restrained consumption, so hopefully, a day with no particular harm done.
Tomorrow, Ma comes home from her sister's place and re-assumes command of her own domain.
And Tuesday brings a return to work for me, and a first toe-dip into the worlds of yoga and boot camp.
And so the 2013 arm of the Disappearing Man begins, from glitter and nullity to stretching and severe pain.
Saturday, 5 January 2013
The Cheesy Toast Recurrence
d's birthday today, so - because she casually let drop a remark over Christmas that she'd never seen a pantomime, as they didn't really have them over in the States - we went to Swansea to see a pantomime version of Cinderella (her favourite fairy tale).
For those who've never seen a pantomime, it's what happens when you take a perfectly good fairy tale...and let the British go nuts on it.
Community singing, slapstick, casual transvestitism and vast quantities of double - or in today's case, single entendre, aimed squarely at kids with lots of audience yelling and participation.
The ugly sisters were played by two hulking dudes in drag, with - at one point - muppet-style singing breasts. Get the idea?
This morning before we headed to Swansea, we had a breakfast out, and mine consisted of Welsh Rarebit - basically cheese on toast with Welsh pretensions.
The rest of the day was taken up with coffee, and only coffee, till we came home. Instead of going for the Indian meal we had talked about, we decided we felt more Italian. Pizza Hut! In other words, cheese on toast with Italian pretensions.
So today - cheesy toast has been the overall order of the day. Tomorrow, there's no real agenda. May well get on the bike at some point and start re-introducing my body to the concept of exercise. For now though, at 11 o'clock, we're hitting the sack.
Ni-night...
For those who've never seen a pantomime, it's what happens when you take a perfectly good fairy tale...and let the British go nuts on it.
Community singing, slapstick, casual transvestitism and vast quantities of double - or in today's case, single entendre, aimed squarely at kids with lots of audience yelling and participation.
The ugly sisters were played by two hulking dudes in drag, with - at one point - muppet-style singing breasts. Get the idea?
This morning before we headed to Swansea, we had a breakfast out, and mine consisted of Welsh Rarebit - basically cheese on toast with Welsh pretensions.
The rest of the day was taken up with coffee, and only coffee, till we came home. Instead of going for the Indian meal we had talked about, we decided we felt more Italian. Pizza Hut! In other words, cheese on toast with Italian pretensions.
So today - cheesy toast has been the overall order of the day. Tomorrow, there's no real agenda. May well get on the bike at some point and start re-introducing my body to the concept of exercise. For now though, at 11 o'clock, we're hitting the sack.
Ni-night...
Friday, 4 January 2013
The Forward Planning Strategy
One of the best and simplest gifts I had this Christmas was from Ma (who, for those following the story, came out of hospital this afternoon and is now staying with her sister for a few days to recuperate. Seems fine, within the parameters of having had surgery yesterday).
It was a wall planner.
A weekly wall planner, with about eight weeks' space on it, based on a whiteboard.
This allows me to...well...plan ahead. Plan weigh ins, plan work schedules, and, as of tonight, when I finally made good on my intention to get the timetable of classes at the leisure centre, plan exercise schedules.
Glad I picked the timetable up - they appear to have invented a few new forms of exercise-based torture since I last walked through the doors. Well Hell, weirdly, they've entirely replaced the doors since I last walked through the doors, which is perhaps all the proof one really needs that it's been too damn long a time.
I'm not expecting anyone to answer this, but anyone got a clue what Vibe Cycling is? Seems to be high impact, whatever the fuck it is, so probably something up to which one must sidle gradually. Actually, sounds like the latest in luxury self-pleasuring for the busy woman on the go, but I'm guessing, probably, isn't.
There's something known as 20/20/20, which was deliciously enigmatic till d suggested it was probably "twenty minutes of one thing, twenty minutes of another, twenty minutes of something else again..."
There's now the potential to do Tai Chi, which I'm not entirely sure isn't something you drink, rather than something you do.
There's Urban Rebound - which sounds like the kind of thing they'd call Dodgeball the movie if it starred Sylvester Stallone.
And then there's Boot Camp.
Boot Camp's new.
Boot Camp is perversely attractive to me. I'm gonna give Boot Camp a go. I will whinge extensively about Boot Camp, of this there can be no earthly doubt. But something about the brutality of something almost designed to break your very spirit or make you stronger appallingly appeals to me. Oh and for a true moment of perverse planning, on a Tuesday night, Boot Camp follows directly after Yoga. Might give Yoga a go too - have never been a particularly stretchy individual (stretchy, for the morbidly obese, being more a case of rolling out the dough around one's mid-section than extending one's poor demoralised muscles.
Tuesday. Me. Yoga, followed by Boot Camp.
FUN!
d's birthday tomorrow, which means going somewhere silly, to do something mad. And also going out tomorrow night to a local Indian restaurant. Yes, dammit, good food will be had by all. Not getting hung up on this stuff any more, life's too short. Will eat, will enjoy, will move the fuck on and do Boot Camp...
It's on the planner now. It will be done...
It was a wall planner.
A weekly wall planner, with about eight weeks' space on it, based on a whiteboard.
This allows me to...well...plan ahead. Plan weigh ins, plan work schedules, and, as of tonight, when I finally made good on my intention to get the timetable of classes at the leisure centre, plan exercise schedules.
Glad I picked the timetable up - they appear to have invented a few new forms of exercise-based torture since I last walked through the doors. Well Hell, weirdly, they've entirely replaced the doors since I last walked through the doors, which is perhaps all the proof one really needs that it's been too damn long a time.
I'm not expecting anyone to answer this, but anyone got a clue what Vibe Cycling is? Seems to be high impact, whatever the fuck it is, so probably something up to which one must sidle gradually. Actually, sounds like the latest in luxury self-pleasuring for the busy woman on the go, but I'm guessing, probably, isn't.
There's something known as 20/20/20, which was deliciously enigmatic till d suggested it was probably "twenty minutes of one thing, twenty minutes of another, twenty minutes of something else again..."
There's now the potential to do Tai Chi, which I'm not entirely sure isn't something you drink, rather than something you do.
There's Urban Rebound - which sounds like the kind of thing they'd call Dodgeball the movie if it starred Sylvester Stallone.
And then there's Boot Camp.
Boot Camp's new.
Boot Camp is perversely attractive to me. I'm gonna give Boot Camp a go. I will whinge extensively about Boot Camp, of this there can be no earthly doubt. But something about the brutality of something almost designed to break your very spirit or make you stronger appallingly appeals to me. Oh and for a true moment of perverse planning, on a Tuesday night, Boot Camp follows directly after Yoga. Might give Yoga a go too - have never been a particularly stretchy individual (stretchy, for the morbidly obese, being more a case of rolling out the dough around one's mid-section than extending one's poor demoralised muscles.
Tuesday. Me. Yoga, followed by Boot Camp.
FUN!
d's birthday tomorrow, which means going somewhere silly, to do something mad. And also going out tomorrow night to a local Indian restaurant. Yes, dammit, good food will be had by all. Not getting hung up on this stuff any more, life's too short. Will eat, will enjoy, will move the fuck on and do Boot Camp...
It's on the planner now. It will be done...
Thursday, 3 January 2013
The Force of Nature Revelation
Did I mention I'm having a little difficulty realising I'm supposed to be Disappearing again?
Today's a perfect example of that.
Woke at 5.40, five minutes before the alarm was set to shock the bejeesus out of me. Went with Ma, and my Aunt and Uncle, to the Royal Glamorgan hospital. Long story short, stayed there till 4pm, during which time, Ma went under the knife, went ever so lightly blue with dye, and came out the other side, smiling and high on Morphine. She comes home tomorrow morning.
I spent the day in what amounted to a Starbucks attached to a hospital, writing. Man, but that is the life. Y'know, minus the hospital and the worry and the needle and the knives and all that.
Thing is, I ended up not eating all day, just drinking coffee. Which is why when I weighed in at 6AM, I weighed 18 stone 3.25, and when I weighed when I came home, I weighed just 18 stone 1.
Then we had Chinese for dinner.
So that would be another failed day of Disappearing, then.
Thing is: I was thinking about all this, and how much I suck, when up popped my pal Rebecca.
She wanted a bit of advice, which I gave her, and then asked about Ma, so I filled her in.
"Amazing woman, your Ma," she commented.
"Force of freakin' nature," I agreed.
And something in my head went CLICK.
My mother, as anyone who knows her will tell you, IS, a force of nature.
My father - and, with a nod of the purest respect to my Dad, here, I mean my bio-father - was a force of freakin' nature too.
So what the hell am I?
"A force of nature?" asked Rebecca, with her virtual head on the side in amused doubt.
"Maybe," I said. "Maybe not, but maybe a force of stubborn bastardy?"
See - I've been having difficulty getting my Disappearing Discipline on. Except if we're gonna face some facts here, that's bullshit. I haven't been "having difficulty," I've been wallowing in pleasure, and not committing.
What happens if I commit? What happens if I decide to turn my stubborn assery RIGHT the hell on?
Well, we know what happens, don't we boys and girls? We've seen it. It was Year One of the Disappearing Man, when I lost nigh on six stone.
Disappearance Engine - FREAKIN' ENGAGED!!!
That is all. That is done. I want to be awesome. I want to strip away the weight, the dust, the bulk of sloth and consequence, and I want to emerge again. I want that...very badly.
Today's a perfect example of that.
Woke at 5.40, five minutes before the alarm was set to shock the bejeesus out of me. Went with Ma, and my Aunt and Uncle, to the Royal Glamorgan hospital. Long story short, stayed there till 4pm, during which time, Ma went under the knife, went ever so lightly blue with dye, and came out the other side, smiling and high on Morphine. She comes home tomorrow morning.
I spent the day in what amounted to a Starbucks attached to a hospital, writing. Man, but that is the life. Y'know, minus the hospital and the worry and the needle and the knives and all that.
Thing is, I ended up not eating all day, just drinking coffee. Which is why when I weighed in at 6AM, I weighed 18 stone 3.25, and when I weighed when I came home, I weighed just 18 stone 1.
Then we had Chinese for dinner.
So that would be another failed day of Disappearing, then.
Thing is: I was thinking about all this, and how much I suck, when up popped my pal Rebecca.
She wanted a bit of advice, which I gave her, and then asked about Ma, so I filled her in.
"Amazing woman, your Ma," she commented.
"Force of freakin' nature," I agreed.
And something in my head went CLICK.
My mother, as anyone who knows her will tell you, IS, a force of nature.
My father - and, with a nod of the purest respect to my Dad, here, I mean my bio-father - was a force of freakin' nature too.
So what the hell am I?
"A force of nature?" asked Rebecca, with her virtual head on the side in amused doubt.
"Maybe," I said. "Maybe not, but maybe a force of stubborn bastardy?"
See - I've been having difficulty getting my Disappearing Discipline on. Except if we're gonna face some facts here, that's bullshit. I haven't been "having difficulty," I've been wallowing in pleasure, and not committing.
What happens if I commit? What happens if I decide to turn my stubborn assery RIGHT the hell on?
Well, we know what happens, don't we boys and girls? We've seen it. It was Year One of the Disappearing Man, when I lost nigh on six stone.
Disappearance Engine - FREAKIN' ENGAGED!!!
That is all. That is done. I want to be awesome. I want to strip away the weight, the dust, the bulk of sloth and consequence, and I want to emerge again. I want that...very badly.
Wednesday, 2 January 2013
The Nazi Scales Postponement
For a man with, at present, two calendars (not to mention the one on the computer), I seem to be having a bizarre time of it lately when it comes to Noticing Shit That's Coming Up in The World.
I'm obviously not talking about big, Real World shit - I was vaguely aware of the Fiscal Cliff Deadline and while it would have been creepy to be aware of the imminence of the Clinton Blood Clot Palaver, once it had happened, I followed it with the dutifully mixed cocktail of emotions you'd expect - "Awww, poor woman, I wouldn't wish that on anyone," on the one hand, and "That's her bid for power fucked then..." on the other. You know, the weird balance of the common courtesy you'd give a stranger on a street - pissing on them if they were on fire, say - and the understanding that it was Hilary Clinton you were talking about and realising you weren't really quite bothered about the venal vulture in a pant suit to, for instance, whip your dick out if she was on fire.
Annnyway, that's not what I mean. Followed all that vaguely enough, but at least I was aware of them on some level. Meanwhile, things in my personal, small, Real life have tended in recent weeks to hit me in the face like a shoal of flying fish in a desperate hurry to get somewhere. Christmas - p-thunk! New Year - w-fump! Re-Disappearing Day - F-wang!
And then there's tomorrow.
Tomorrow is Ma's op to remove whatever-the-fuck is nestling in her tissue that really shouldn't be there. I'm getting picked up at 6.30am - ouch! - and essentially sitting up in reception at the hospital until 4pm, by which time she'll be out of theatre and presumably off her tits on Socialised Medical painkillers (not to gloat, but stitch that, Republicans! Won't cost her a penny at the point of need. Keep peddling the bullshit about socialised healthcare being unconstitutional and morally repugnant, the rest of the world thinks you're a bunch of arses and an increasing political irrelevance in the 21st Century).
What that means is I'm faced with a choice between two equally distorted weigh-in readings. One at 6 o'clockish in the morning, when my eyes won't really work and my system will be sluggish and full of tonight's dinner. Or one at about 5 in the afternoon, by which point, I may well have - dum dum duuuuuuhhhh! - Eaten Something.
I don't, however, want to postpone the initial weigh-in of 2013, because however bad it's going to be - and it is - it will set the benchmark for the achievement I have to make during the course of this year. What to do, what to do...
Tune in tomorrow for exciting details!
I'm obviously not talking about big, Real World shit - I was vaguely aware of the Fiscal Cliff Deadline and while it would have been creepy to be aware of the imminence of the Clinton Blood Clot Palaver, once it had happened, I followed it with the dutifully mixed cocktail of emotions you'd expect - "Awww, poor woman, I wouldn't wish that on anyone," on the one hand, and "That's her bid for power fucked then..." on the other. You know, the weird balance of the common courtesy you'd give a stranger on a street - pissing on them if they were on fire, say - and the understanding that it was Hilary Clinton you were talking about and realising you weren't really quite bothered about the venal vulture in a pant suit to, for instance, whip your dick out if she was on fire.
Annnyway, that's not what I mean. Followed all that vaguely enough, but at least I was aware of them on some level. Meanwhile, things in my personal, small, Real life have tended in recent weeks to hit me in the face like a shoal of flying fish in a desperate hurry to get somewhere. Christmas - p-thunk! New Year - w-fump! Re-Disappearing Day - F-wang!
And then there's tomorrow.
Tomorrow is Ma's op to remove whatever-the-fuck is nestling in her tissue that really shouldn't be there. I'm getting picked up at 6.30am - ouch! - and essentially sitting up in reception at the hospital until 4pm, by which time she'll be out of theatre and presumably off her tits on Socialised Medical painkillers (not to gloat, but stitch that, Republicans! Won't cost her a penny at the point of need. Keep peddling the bullshit about socialised healthcare being unconstitutional and morally repugnant, the rest of the world thinks you're a bunch of arses and an increasing political irrelevance in the 21st Century).
What that means is I'm faced with a choice between two equally distorted weigh-in readings. One at 6 o'clockish in the morning, when my eyes won't really work and my system will be sluggish and full of tonight's dinner. Or one at about 5 in the afternoon, by which point, I may well have - dum dum duuuuuuhhhh! - Eaten Something.
I don't, however, want to postpone the initial weigh-in of 2013, because however bad it's going to be - and it is - it will set the benchmark for the achievement I have to make during the course of this year. What to do, what to do...
Tune in tomorrow for exciting details!
Tuesday, 1 January 2013
The Sinatra Factor
Annnnd noooooow, the end is neeeeear, and I must faaaace, the final moments of being a lazy undisciplined git...
(Shrugs).
Forgive me, but I don't think Sinatra would have sold half so many records if My Way had started out like that.
Still, that's where I am. The night before it all begins again.
Strangely unrelieved and unprepared for the whole thing, really. Seems to be the way of this week - Christmas took me almost completely by surprise when - BAM - there it was. The New Year moment too - we were all up and about, chatting, grooving etc, then we looked up and Big Ben was giving it laldy and people were singing Auld Lang Syne and all that stuff and we were taken by surprise.
So with the resumption of Disappearing. Find myself going "What...already?"
Thing is, as has been noted, this simply has to happen now.
Had a nice moment last night - d and Ma were checking through some photos, and d came across the pictures we took when I started the Disappearing Man the first time. And the consensus was that I look nothing like I did back then. Which is true. But, as I pointed out, neither, in photos taken last night, did I look like my 15 or even 16 stone self. I'm definitely starting to get some jowls and additional chins back, which is severely irritating but of course inevitable.
So tomorrow - which I've taken as annual leave which stretches all the way through to the 8th of January...just cos I'm a git and can do that sort of thing...among other things that must be done, I'm going to a) go to the doctor's surgery to pick up some more blood testing strips, and start testing again, and b) go back to the leisure centre to pick up their new timetable of classes and events and what-have-you. As I'm off and, miraculously, don't have an ongoing edit any more either, I may well stick around and punish my body a little...
As ya do...
One other thing I should say about today. This is the first entry to come your way courtesy of my new, fairly kick-ass computer - 23 inch Toshiba all-in-one malarkey. Veeeeerrrry nice - though it appears on occasion to have been hanging around with Apple Macs and picked up some nasty habits. A swift kick in the CPU should sort it out though, and for the first time in a while, I'm not squinting to read this gibberish.
So here we go then...back to it...
(Shrugs).
Forgive me, but I don't think Sinatra would have sold half so many records if My Way had started out like that.
Still, that's where I am. The night before it all begins again.
Strangely unrelieved and unprepared for the whole thing, really. Seems to be the way of this week - Christmas took me almost completely by surprise when - BAM - there it was. The New Year moment too - we were all up and about, chatting, grooving etc, then we looked up and Big Ben was giving it laldy and people were singing Auld Lang Syne and all that stuff and we were taken by surprise.
So with the resumption of Disappearing. Find myself going "What...already?"
Thing is, as has been noted, this simply has to happen now.
Had a nice moment last night - d and Ma were checking through some photos, and d came across the pictures we took when I started the Disappearing Man the first time. And the consensus was that I look nothing like I did back then. Which is true. But, as I pointed out, neither, in photos taken last night, did I look like my 15 or even 16 stone self. I'm definitely starting to get some jowls and additional chins back, which is severely irritating but of course inevitable.
So tomorrow - which I've taken as annual leave which stretches all the way through to the 8th of January...just cos I'm a git and can do that sort of thing...among other things that must be done, I'm going to a) go to the doctor's surgery to pick up some more blood testing strips, and start testing again, and b) go back to the leisure centre to pick up their new timetable of classes and events and what-have-you. As I'm off and, miraculously, don't have an ongoing edit any more either, I may well stick around and punish my body a little...
As ya do...
One other thing I should say about today. This is the first entry to come your way courtesy of my new, fairly kick-ass computer - 23 inch Toshiba all-in-one malarkey. Veeeeerrrry nice - though it appears on occasion to have been hanging around with Apple Macs and picked up some nasty habits. A swift kick in the CPU should sort it out though, and for the first time in a while, I'm not squinting to read this gibberish.
So here we go then...back to it...
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