Headline-apalooza

Well, score one for bastard-stubbornness, an understanding wife and gardening.

Headline news this morning:
Weight: 19 stone, 11 and a half pounds.

From last week's result of 20 stone and three quarters of a pound, that's a loss of three and a quarter pounds - so, headline number one: Fat Fuck Exceeds Weekly Weightloss Expectations, Does Funny Little Dance In Underpants.

Headline number two of course: Fat Fuck Breaks First Stone-Marker, Sees 19 Stone For First Time In Three Years.
And, with its neat little symmetry of loss, this means I've now lost 10 pounds in five weeks - which is not only exactly what I set out to do - achieve the 'safe' loss of two pounds per week, every week, (though of course the numbers hide some ups and downs here) - but also puts my ambitions squarely back on track to go forward with. Now of course, I'm not stupid enough to think it'll be plain sailing from here - there'll be plenty of weeks of no-movement, and probably even some weeks of setbacks and weight-gain, but it's going to be important, in those weeks, to remember how this feels - vindication of what I'm doing, and that I'm doing it seriously, and it's having effective results. You know what this feels like? It feels like the piano solo in "Great Balls of Fire," or the guitar opening of Huey Lewis' "The Power of Love" - all optimistic and great-stride-forwardy and everything-to-live-for-ish and hoo-ah, look at me, being all slim...

So Headline number three: Fat Fuck Back On Weightloss Track, Feels On Top Of World.

Now of course, it's entirely possible to get carried away with this feeling. For instance, this morning's weigh-in was done before eating anything, and before...ahem...evacuating anything. Just broke my own rule and weighed again after having done both, and the scales had me back up to 19 stone 13, a whole pound and a half up on balance. So it's important to remember the fluidity of these things. But on balance, this is a kickass kind of day.

Makes me want to go grab the mini-chainsaw and cut down...well, practically everything in the garden, or lay on the floor and start doing improbable, flab-folding sit-ups just to add an extra aerobic dimension to my regime. But the fear of headline four prevents me:

Fat Fuck Ruptures Self, Toes Stuck Under Sofa For Hours, or alternatively
Fat Fuck Loses Arm In ChainsawRobics Plan...

So, let's not do that. Let's wave streamers, grab five pats of butter and stare at them and realise they no longer exist attached to my body, let's, indeed, dance around in our underwear (well, those of us lucky enough to be working from home today anyway...) and go "Woohoo, it's freaking working!" And then let's think seriously and soberly about the whole aerobic thing, but not actually do any damn thing about it till we've had a word with the dietician and the doctor one more time.

Now, if you'll excuse me...have a happy, funny little dance to go and do...