I should say at this point I'm not doing this deliberately. I'm not going 'ohhhh woooooeeee is meeee,' and ringing my little leper-bell, and coming off all flabby and gross, only to turn the tables on a Tuesday and go "Ahaaaaa! Only joking!! Look how fab I am!!!"
Seriously - not doing that. Yesterday I really did think I'd have put on a small, reasonably accommodating shedload of weight, and I really did pedal my desperate ass off. And last night, just before bed, I went to do my usual pre-bed ablutions, and ended up glued to the sonofabitch toilet again for the best part of forty minutes. Both of which, I'm assuming, help to explain the fact that today, blog-watchers, we are strapping on our party hats and handing out the kazoos, because today's weigh-in revealed the following:
Weight at eight weeks: 19 stone 6.5 pounds!!!
Awoogadewoogadewoowoohoo, awoogadewoogadewoo!!! That's one stone, one pound, or fifteen pounds in total. For those keeping up, that means I'm just one tiny little pound behind my stated schedule of two pounds per week.
This is the moment to pull out any spare bunting you have that hasn't already been strung up to celebrate having a day off cos some young toffs are getting married this week, wrap it round yourself and do a conga, baby!
It's easy, on days like this, to feel more than a little smug. Doesn't last though, and believe me, you wouldn't want it to, I'd be even more insufferable than usual. In other news, no, I still haven't taken the weights out of their box and yes, I went to the doctor about the blisters. It was an interestingly...erm...socialised...experience. Arrived at 8.30, asked to see a doctor. Was rather fabulously given an appointment at 9.10, so figured I'd hang around. At 9.30, I got called to see a Dr. Roy in Room 5. Which would have been fine, if Room 5 hadn't been both locked and empty. I went back out to the waiting room.
"It's Room 5," said a fellow waiting-person.
"Yeah," I said. "That's what I thought..."
I went back and tried it again. Nope. Still locked, still empty. I was heading back to the waiting room a second time, when the door to Room 2 flew open and a beady-eyed beetley litle man popped his head out and beckoned me in. Room 2 had "Dr Aziz" stuck on the front of it. But this wasn't Dr Aziz.
"Ah, yes, sorry about that. Did something wrong," he explained.
"Err...yes," I said.
"I'm Dr Roy, I'm new...well I say new, I'm only here for today. Covering, you know..."
"Right," I said. "...Long as you're qualified..." I murmured to myself.
I explained about the blisters and the diabetic feet and yadda yadda yadda....it occurs to me I could have just printed out a couple of blog entries, but they tend to look at you strangely if you do that kind of thing. I had my sock off and the beetley little man was peering at my toes when the door burst open again.
"Look," said the new man, "I know you're with someone, but I really am gonna need my room back at some point."
Ah.
"Morning Dr Aziz," I said, grinning rather broadly given the time of day.
"Yes yes, of course," said Dr Roy, prodding my blisters as though they had just solved differential calculus and he wanted to see what else they were capable of.
Dr Aziz backed out of the doorway, shutting it behind him. Fair play to the man, there's only so much weird you should have to put up with in any given minute.
"They'll be fine," said Dr Roy, coming back down to Earth. "But don't go mad."
"You mean, I can't do proper walking on them for a bit longer?" I asked.
"Walking? Well of course you can do walking," he said. "You can't just sit about because of a blister, can you?"
"Nono," I said. "I mean...long walking. Fast walking. Weightloss walking."
He sniffed, as if the very idea of weightloss walking had farted in his face.
"Noooo, best not. It's healing, after all. You don't want to inflame it, do you?"
I sighed.
"No, I suppose not..." I said, getting the Hell out of the place before he decided to amputate something, just to keep his hand in.
So - still notsomuch on the walking, but the biking remains fine, and I daresay the dumb-bells would be damn useful if I could work up the gumption to get them out of their box.
On another note, I made a new Facebook friend recently, called Donna. She's a Doctor Who fan, and a Mitch Benn fan, so she's two thirds of the way to fabulousness before we start. But, perhaps more imminently relevant, she's going for the gastric band...or sleeve, I forget - will have to ask her again - within the next six months. We were talking about this and she explained that before they even let you have the op, you have to sort of prove your commitment to the life-change it involves by losing 5% of your starting bodyweight. Maths-fans will be able to work out quickly that since I started at 20 stone 7.5, one-twentieth of that is one stone and a smidgen. So technically, from where I started out, were I to stay right here, I'd be op-ready.
Of course, another way of looking at it is that I'm a little more than one-ninth of the way to what the medical nightmare-squad who define things like the Body Mass Index say would be my 'healthy weight' - 11 stone 1.
Annnnd so it's back to the bike we go.
Oh yeah - blood sugar this morning was positively omenic too - down to 4.5. Not sure whether that's good for a diabetic, or wheher, as a fat fuck, I'm flirting with the ludicrous territory of having a 'hypo' reaction - blood sugar too low(!). (Rolls eyes). If it's not one thing it's another I guess. Anyhow, a good, bunting-worthy day, blog-watchers. Second ten miles of cycling, here we come...
No comments:
Post a Comment