Well, hello again.
I've meant to write a copuple of entries since the last one, but have pretty much convinced myself that I've been too busy. Don't get me wrong, I've been madly busy, but the whole Disappearing schtick is supposed to be about finding balance in life, making time to include some exercise in my otherwise sedentary-jobbed life, and making positive changes to my lifestyle.
Let me say without prevarication, that's been a bit fucked up lately.
My last weigh-in - the one I missed reporting to you - showed me as 19st 1.25, so back into the 19s. That was disappointing, but given that I hadn't done any exercise, and had been eating rather unwisely (Translation: there had been chocolate, or desserts, or high-carb meals late at night, or some other dumbass thing), I wasn't as disappointed by it as I probably should have been. What's more, have I changed my habits back to full-on Disappearing mode in the week since that weigh-in? No, not at all.
So all in all, things have not been on track for a couple of weeks, and if I let the catch-all excuse of 'busyness' determine me towards a flamethrower policy of doing whatever the hell I want to do, then things won't improve over the next few weeks either, they'll just get progressively worse and harder to shift back into a positive gear. So on the principle of faking it till we make it, let's assume a Disappearing attitude, and see what happens next.
Faking it? Yes, the positivity of the thing has safely evaporated now, and indeed so has most of the progress, so it's a case of hauling my ass back on the bike and being Mr Sensible all over again. On the other hand, my system is no longer conditioned to exercise and healthier eating, so with any luck the rapid loss of the first few pounds of mostly-water should kick in again and give me a boost.
(Sigh). Here's hoping, anyway.
Monday, 29 February 2016
Wednesday, 17 February 2016
15th February - The Nazi Forgetfulness
No, still haven't put batteries in the Nazi Scales. Which is extra tricky because I'm either not that much heavier than last week, or significantly heavier than last week and damn close to where I started, depending on which faint, weak-ass signal of their forgetfulness we believe.
Weigh-in today put me as either:
19st 00 or
19st 1.25 or
19st 2.
Who the hell knows which if any of these are accurate? Must get round to buying batteries. Must do. Because, y'know, I so want to face the genuine music of my week of more or less exercise-freedom.
One thing I'll tell you - the propensity exists in me for a dangerous new routine. A Costa coffee shop has opened up just round the corner from me, and while I vow my unswerving loyalty to my particular Starbuckers, I also vow my increasing poverty, and it's a hell of a lot easier and cheaper to go round the corner for processed-sandwich lunch and coffee at Costa than it is to jump on a train and spend the day being all productive. In itself, that's probably not so bad, but it is rather facilitating my not-new but new-this-week habit (honestly, it must get exhausting listening to which particular pothole I've fallen down this week) of buying a bag of cashews and chomping my way through them as I plough through work towards a tight deadline.
Clearly, this needs to be stopped at some point soon, because whichever of the weigh-in numbers is actually accurate, it's not good. Also, I need to start biking more properly, and walking more properly again, to kick the living crap out of my metabolism and get it to remember its function.
Walking goooood. Cashews gorgeous little bastards, but basically a tiny individual sack of fat and calories.
When the Nazis get theire memory back, I promise I'll interrogate them in a more rigorous manner - three potential weigh-in figures is just ridiculous.
Weigh-in today put me as either:
19st 00 or
19st 1.25 or
19st 2.
Who the hell knows which if any of these are accurate? Must get round to buying batteries. Must do. Because, y'know, I so want to face the genuine music of my week of more or less exercise-freedom.
One thing I'll tell you - the propensity exists in me for a dangerous new routine. A Costa coffee shop has opened up just round the corner from me, and while I vow my unswerving loyalty to my particular Starbuckers, I also vow my increasing poverty, and it's a hell of a lot easier and cheaper to go round the corner for processed-sandwich lunch and coffee at Costa than it is to jump on a train and spend the day being all productive. In itself, that's probably not so bad, but it is rather facilitating my not-new but new-this-week habit (honestly, it must get exhausting listening to which particular pothole I've fallen down this week) of buying a bag of cashews and chomping my way through them as I plough through work towards a tight deadline.
Clearly, this needs to be stopped at some point soon, because whichever of the weigh-in numbers is actually accurate, it's not good. Also, I need to start biking more properly, and walking more properly again, to kick the living crap out of my metabolism and get it to remember its function.
Walking goooood. Cashews gorgeous little bastards, but basically a tiny individual sack of fat and calories.
When the Nazis get theire memory back, I promise I'll interrogate them in a more rigorous manner - three potential weigh-in figures is just ridiculous.
14th February - The Valentine Conundrum
Part of the point about Disappearing is shifting your mind from a state in which you're doing something you don't want to do to a state in which you're doing something you either do want to do it, or you just do it because it's what you do.
Holidays are legendarily tricky as far as that's concerned, because the messages you get from everywhere, from every societal norm there is, are all geared towards consumption. It's one of those scattergun scenarios where the social convention assumes that every other day of the year, you're a sensible person, despite for the most part a staggering absence of evidence of any such thing. Food that's technically unwise for Disappearers is also imbued in our culture with all kinds of messages of its own - Thanksgiving food equals plenty and togetherness. Christmas food equals...well, plenty, togetherness and screw it, we have January to cope with soon enough. Valentine's Day of course equates sweetness with love.
All of which is something of a lazy introduction to the idea that this year, d and I made each other our Valentine's gifts. Because d has mad wicked skills as a baker, she made me some cake. And it was glorious, thankyouverymuch, and I enjoyed every minute and every mouthful of it.
The point is not "Waaah, I had caaaaake!" Cake is good. We love cake. Especially cake as a representation of time and effort and skill and love. We are entirely pro-cake.
The point is that I've been that guy this week - the guy who's by no means a sensible person the rest of the time. Seem to have developed a fetish for roasted cashew nuts this week, and not just a passing handful of the beautiful salty bastards. Nono - a bagful. At a time. Most days of the week.
This means, effectively, I'm too stupid to eat love-cake this week.
What's undoubtedly more is that I've fallen into that state of deadline panic where I can take time to do all the fun things, like going to see Deadpool twice in one day (which, as a way of spending some time, by the way, I heartily recommend), but when it comes to getting on the bike, I've been all "Noooo, don't have time - have a deadline to meet!"
So - yeah, too stupid for love-cake. But let's not get maudlin about it. There will be consequences. They will be dire. And we pick ourselves the hell back up and Disappear again.
Holidays are legendarily tricky as far as that's concerned, because the messages you get from everywhere, from every societal norm there is, are all geared towards consumption. It's one of those scattergun scenarios where the social convention assumes that every other day of the year, you're a sensible person, despite for the most part a staggering absence of evidence of any such thing. Food that's technically unwise for Disappearers is also imbued in our culture with all kinds of messages of its own - Thanksgiving food equals plenty and togetherness. Christmas food equals...well, plenty, togetherness and screw it, we have January to cope with soon enough. Valentine's Day of course equates sweetness with love.
All of which is something of a lazy introduction to the idea that this year, d and I made each other our Valentine's gifts. Because d has mad wicked skills as a baker, she made me some cake. And it was glorious, thankyouverymuch, and I enjoyed every minute and every mouthful of it.
The point is not "Waaah, I had caaaaake!" Cake is good. We love cake. Especially cake as a representation of time and effort and skill and love. We are entirely pro-cake.
The point is that I've been that guy this week - the guy who's by no means a sensible person the rest of the time. Seem to have developed a fetish for roasted cashew nuts this week, and not just a passing handful of the beautiful salty bastards. Nono - a bagful. At a time. Most days of the week.
This means, effectively, I'm too stupid to eat love-cake this week.
What's undoubtedly more is that I've fallen into that state of deadline panic where I can take time to do all the fun things, like going to see Deadpool twice in one day (which, as a way of spending some time, by the way, I heartily recommend), but when it comes to getting on the bike, I've been all "Noooo, don't have time - have a deadline to meet!"
So - yeah, too stupid for love-cake. But let's not get maudlin about it. There will be consequences. They will be dire. And we pick ourselves the hell back up and Disappear again.
Saturday, 13 February 2016
12th February - The Hazelnut Gift Temptation
"Here you go, Tony," said Naz, popping a promotional gift on my table.
At least, I assume it was a promotional gift. Harry later asked me if I'd had one, so I assume they were being given out as a Valentine's Day celebration at Starbucks - two Ferrero Rocher in a sleeve, the idea being there was "one for you, and one for them," them being your Valentine.
Now, given my freedom, I'll snarf a bucketload of these gorgeous little senseless beasts - hazelnut, chocolate, wafer shell, more chocolate, embedded with nutty bits and wankily individually wrapped in gold foil, leading in the UK to an infamous ad campaign where an ambassador sent a big trayful of the little buggers as a way of "spoiling" his guests at a reception.
As I say, me and Ferrero, we have an understanding. d and Ferrero - notsomuch. She has a Thing about hazelnuts in the same way Donald Trump has a thing about Muslims or thinking - an almost fundamental aversion. Hazelnuts in chocolate, she regards as almost as much of a gastronomic war crime as chocolate and orange, a kind of "Why would you do that to innocent ingredients?" loathing.
That meant I had a chocolate dilemma.
I know, I know, sounds like I'm being a drama queen, but think about it. They're specifically Valentine's chocolates. It's not like I can pass them on to someone else without getting a sideways glance and quite possibly getting maced in the face. I can hardly give them back, because who in their right minds spurns free chocolate unless they're saying to the giver "Fuck you and your chocolate gift." And the only thing sadder in the universe than returned chocolate is thrown away chocolate, its postential of sweet joy squandered without ever having the chance to shine, to bring a smile to any face, which all the hours of labour involved in its needlessly poncey creation have anticipated.
The Ferrero Rocher sat there for hours, occasionally catching my eye and giving the chocolate equivalent of a hopeful, fragile smile and big eyes. I ordered coffee after coffee, and their imaginary eyes went down again, saddened that I was ignoring them.
Eventually, I had to leave. There were things I had to do, places I had to be. The Ferrero Rocher caught my eye again, and there seemed to be no hope left in their big, wide imaginary eyes, only the glimpses of a saddened moistness.
"Oh, come here then," I said, and it was like all their Christamses had come at once. I unwrapped both Rocher and snaffled them there and then before leaving the coffee shop. I like to think it's how they would have wanted to go.
So - v bad, as Bridget Jones would say, but I literally had no other option in the world. One's heartlessness extends only so far, you know.
At least, I assume it was a promotional gift. Harry later asked me if I'd had one, so I assume they were being given out as a Valentine's Day celebration at Starbucks - two Ferrero Rocher in a sleeve, the idea being there was "one for you, and one for them," them being your Valentine.
Now, given my freedom, I'll snarf a bucketload of these gorgeous little senseless beasts - hazelnut, chocolate, wafer shell, more chocolate, embedded with nutty bits and wankily individually wrapped in gold foil, leading in the UK to an infamous ad campaign where an ambassador sent a big trayful of the little buggers as a way of "spoiling" his guests at a reception.
As I say, me and Ferrero, we have an understanding. d and Ferrero - notsomuch. She has a Thing about hazelnuts in the same way Donald Trump has a thing about Muslims or thinking - an almost fundamental aversion. Hazelnuts in chocolate, she regards as almost as much of a gastronomic war crime as chocolate and orange, a kind of "Why would you do that to innocent ingredients?" loathing.
That meant I had a chocolate dilemma.
I know, I know, sounds like I'm being a drama queen, but think about it. They're specifically Valentine's chocolates. It's not like I can pass them on to someone else without getting a sideways glance and quite possibly getting maced in the face. I can hardly give them back, because who in their right minds spurns free chocolate unless they're saying to the giver "Fuck you and your chocolate gift." And the only thing sadder in the universe than returned chocolate is thrown away chocolate, its postential of sweet joy squandered without ever having the chance to shine, to bring a smile to any face, which all the hours of labour involved in its needlessly poncey creation have anticipated.
The Ferrero Rocher sat there for hours, occasionally catching my eye and giving the chocolate equivalent of a hopeful, fragile smile and big eyes. I ordered coffee after coffee, and their imaginary eyes went down again, saddened that I was ignoring them.
Eventually, I had to leave. There were things I had to do, places I had to be. The Ferrero Rocher caught my eye again, and there seemed to be no hope left in their big, wide imaginary eyes, only the glimpses of a saddened moistness.
"Oh, come here then," I said, and it was like all their Christamses had come at once. I unwrapped both Rocher and snaffled them there and then before leaving the coffee shop. I like to think it's how they would have wanted to go.
So - v bad, as Bridget Jones would say, but I literally had no other option in the world. One's heartlessness extends only so far, you know.
11th February - The Sweetcorn Transit Experiment
"Here you go, honey," said d, handing me a lovely bowlful of Mexican goodness, with a whole heck of a lot of sweetcorn in the middle.
I smiled, then looked across at her. "This is about what I told you, isn't it?"
She grinned. "Mayyyybe."
You see, there's probably such a thing as oversharing. Anyone who's read many of the entries in the original Disappearing Man probably understands that I don't know where the line is. Y'know, that line where ordinary conversation ends and oversharing begins.
On the day of my weigh-in, I'd met up with d after her shift, and mentioned that, while I'd weighed heavier than I'd hoped to, mid-morning, I'd entirely exploded and wondered what I would have weighed if I could have pressed the Nazi Scales into service right then and there. That much you all know.
What you don't know is what I then said to her.
"Thing is, as I was about to flush, I was utterly perplexed."
She looked at me with a "Why are you telling me this and do I even want to know?" expression on her face.
"I was trying to remember the last time I ate bloomin' sweetcorn," I explained, not at the time registering her expression. "Don't think it was in the Mexican rice, was it?"
It wasn't, she agreed.
"Christ - then it must be from the pizza I had two days ago!"
She looked perplexed, then a dawning look of dread passed over her face. "Jesus, man! I know your blood pressure's chilled out as it comes, but that's taking sloth to a whole new level. I'll get you some 'special yoghurt,' shall I?"
And that had been that - although of course, secretly it hadn't. Secretly, in the background of my day to day life, I'd been calculating how much weight I could legitimately take off the weigh-in figure for two days of accumulated food which I was walking around carrying the weight of without it tehnically being a part of me.
Don't judge me, it's a sickness, alright?!
"Mayyyybe," said d now. "I figured we could actually track the time of your intestinal transit."
"Y'know, most people would find that a bit weird."
"Give it up," she chuckled, "I know you've been thinking about it."
Curses! Rumbled again.
I smiled, then looked across at her. "This is about what I told you, isn't it?"
She grinned. "Mayyyybe."
You see, there's probably such a thing as oversharing. Anyone who's read many of the entries in the original Disappearing Man probably understands that I don't know where the line is. Y'know, that line where ordinary conversation ends and oversharing begins.
On the day of my weigh-in, I'd met up with d after her shift, and mentioned that, while I'd weighed heavier than I'd hoped to, mid-morning, I'd entirely exploded and wondered what I would have weighed if I could have pressed the Nazi Scales into service right then and there. That much you all know.
What you don't know is what I then said to her.
"Thing is, as I was about to flush, I was utterly perplexed."
She looked at me with a "Why are you telling me this and do I even want to know?" expression on her face.
"I was trying to remember the last time I ate bloomin' sweetcorn," I explained, not at the time registering her expression. "Don't think it was in the Mexican rice, was it?"
It wasn't, she agreed.
"Christ - then it must be from the pizza I had two days ago!"
She looked perplexed, then a dawning look of dread passed over her face. "Jesus, man! I know your blood pressure's chilled out as it comes, but that's taking sloth to a whole new level. I'll get you some 'special yoghurt,' shall I?"
And that had been that - although of course, secretly it hadn't. Secretly, in the background of my day to day life, I'd been calculating how much weight I could legitimately take off the weigh-in figure for two days of accumulated food which I was walking around carrying the weight of without it tehnically being a part of me.
Don't judge me, it's a sickness, alright?!
"Mayyyybe," said d now. "I figured we could actually track the time of your intestinal transit."
"Y'know, most people would find that a bit weird."
"Give it up," she chuckled, "I know you've been thinking about it."
Curses! Rumbled again.
Wednesday, 10 February 2016
Mercy and the Nazi Scales
Got on the Nazi Scales first thing this morning before my eyes were properly open or my brain properly booted up.
"Lo," they said.
"Lo?" I asked. "What, are we going all gospel now? Is there a child born to us in the east or something? What the hell are you talking about, Lo?"
I got off, the scales wheezed, getting their breath and eventually their cryptic message disappeared. I kick the them again to get them working.
"Lo," they said again.
"Oh." I said. My Inner Editor itched, and I scratched it. "You mean Low," I told them. "Would one more letter have killed you?"
The Nazi Scales, it seems, in some sort of plea for mercy, have exhausted their battery. I suppose, technically speaking, that's what happens when you weigh a ridiculous number of times a day. Fine. At some point, I need to gut the little bastards and find out what kind of batteries they take to make them all bright and shiny and happy again.
But not today. Today has been a time of day-jobbery and moderate panic that an edit that should be relatively simple appears not to be diminishing, no matter how much of it I do. Right now though, I don't even have time to worry about that - somehow it comes to be later than eight at night, and I have to pick up d from work at 9.45, so I have to stop everything, jump on the bike and pedal.
Pedal, fat boy, pedal! The Nazis can wait for another day to get some mercy shown to them.
"Lo," they said.
"Lo?" I asked. "What, are we going all gospel now? Is there a child born to us in the east or something? What the hell are you talking about, Lo?"
I got off, the scales wheezed, getting their breath and eventually their cryptic message disappeared. I kick the them again to get them working.
"Lo," they said again.
"Oh." I said. My Inner Editor itched, and I scratched it. "You mean Low," I told them. "Would one more letter have killed you?"
The Nazi Scales, it seems, in some sort of plea for mercy, have exhausted their battery. I suppose, technically speaking, that's what happens when you weigh a ridiculous number of times a day. Fine. At some point, I need to gut the little bastards and find out what kind of batteries they take to make them all bright and shiny and happy again.
But not today. Today has been a time of day-jobbery and moderate panic that an edit that should be relatively simple appears not to be diminishing, no matter how much of it I do. Right now though, I don't even have time to worry about that - somehow it comes to be later than eight at night, and I have to pick up d from work at 9.45, so I have to stop everything, jump on the bike and pedal.
Pedal, fat boy, pedal! The Nazis can wait for another day to get some mercy shown to them.
9th February - The Mushroom Failure and The Dessert Success
As predicted, the weigh-in was a setback. To be absolutely honest, it was more of a setback than I'd expected - I weighed in at 18st 13 lb. Three whole pounds of backslide. Though that said, that was before I went to Starbucks for the day, and round about mid-morning, the coffee did what coffee is famous for, and much of me exploded - and naturally, all I could think was "Damn, if only I'd waited to weigh till after that..."
But that's not what happened, so the official figure stands. To say there's room for improvement would be assinine and anodyne at the exact same moment, but that's what weeks are for - to make the improvements we want to see in our lives, whether they be personal, political, creative or Disappearing. You have another week, get to it and carpe the fuck out of that diem.
This evening was reasonably good - yes, technically we went ot an Italian for dinner again (I have no idea what it is about Tuesdays in Cardiff with d, but Italian seems to be our go-to at the moment), but I eschewed the joy of pasta for a chicken saltimbocca (chicken breast, run over by something heavy, wrapped in thin ham, and paired with a white wine sauce and (as it happened), some less than spectacular saute potatoes. Had a starter too, because they were insanely cheap - breaded garlic mushrooms. They were ordered and eaten before the whole "nothing fried" thing even crossed my mind. Don't know what to tell you - I appear to have a weakness for fungi.
That said, we did stroll our eyeballs around the dessert menu. And I was going to be good.
"Oh look - they have a sundae," said d.
"Ohhhh fuck," I murmured.
For those who don't know me well enough to know this, I have notsomuch a weakness for sundaes as a major freaking personality disorder where they're concerned. Sundaes are the can-can dancers of the dessert world, all frills and hidden delights, kicking up their creamy skirts and daring you to dive on in.
This one in particular promised richness, darkness, bittersweetness in its chocolate salted caramel heart.
I sighed.
"Nnnnope," I almost mourned.
"Good answer," said d, and off we went to the movies to watch Shakespeare on stage. The Winter's Tale. I'd forgotten everything about it, despite having read it many years ago. Then we watched it. Now I understand why I'd forgotten everything about it. It went on for about three lifetimes, and by the time Judi Dench and Kenneth Branagh were taking their curtain calls, we had roughly fifteen minutes to get to the last train home. There's power walking, and then there's "I'm gonna be stranded, freezing my ass off on the streets of Cardiff" walking. We did that second kind of walking, and made it to the train with five minutes to spare, but very little left in the way of lung capacity or will to live.
So this is me, embarking on another week of Disappearing after a disappointing but understandable result. The Disappointing Man, perhaps? Ach, maybe, but philosophy is a great consolation on days like this. Sometimes, you just have to say "Shit happens - after you've weighed in," and get the hell back on with what works.
But that's not what happened, so the official figure stands. To say there's room for improvement would be assinine and anodyne at the exact same moment, but that's what weeks are for - to make the improvements we want to see in our lives, whether they be personal, political, creative or Disappearing. You have another week, get to it and carpe the fuck out of that diem.
This evening was reasonably good - yes, technically we went ot an Italian for dinner again (I have no idea what it is about Tuesdays in Cardiff with d, but Italian seems to be our go-to at the moment), but I eschewed the joy of pasta for a chicken saltimbocca (chicken breast, run over by something heavy, wrapped in thin ham, and paired with a white wine sauce and (as it happened), some less than spectacular saute potatoes. Had a starter too, because they were insanely cheap - breaded garlic mushrooms. They were ordered and eaten before the whole "nothing fried" thing even crossed my mind. Don't know what to tell you - I appear to have a weakness for fungi.
That said, we did stroll our eyeballs around the dessert menu. And I was going to be good.
"Oh look - they have a sundae," said d.
"Ohhhh fuck," I murmured.
For those who don't know me well enough to know this, I have notsomuch a weakness for sundaes as a major freaking personality disorder where they're concerned. Sundaes are the can-can dancers of the dessert world, all frills and hidden delights, kicking up their creamy skirts and daring you to dive on in.
This one in particular promised richness, darkness, bittersweetness in its chocolate salted caramel heart.
I sighed.
"Nnnnope," I almost mourned.
"Good answer," said d, and off we went to the movies to watch Shakespeare on stage. The Winter's Tale. I'd forgotten everything about it, despite having read it many years ago. Then we watched it. Now I understand why I'd forgotten everything about it. It went on for about three lifetimes, and by the time Judi Dench and Kenneth Branagh were taking their curtain calls, we had roughly fifteen minutes to get to the last train home. There's power walking, and then there's "I'm gonna be stranded, freezing my ass off on the streets of Cardiff" walking. We did that second kind of walking, and made it to the train with five minutes to spare, but very little left in the way of lung capacity or will to live.
So this is me, embarking on another week of Disappearing after a disappointing but understandable result. The Disappointing Man, perhaps? Ach, maybe, but philosophy is a great consolation on days like this. Sometimes, you just have to say "Shit happens - after you've weighed in," and get the hell back on with what works.
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