Inside Every Fat Person...

"I'm getting so tired of your histrionics, ya know that?"

This, said with some feeling but a comedy eye-roll, was the reaction to my weigh-in this morning from d. She said it in response to my wandering round the house, scratching my head, and indeed anything else that came within reach, and muttering "Well this just doesn't make any bloody sense, does it?"

I can see her point, really - and it raises an interesting question which we've vaguely mentioned before. We're always told that inside every fat person, there's a thin person waiting to get out...the question is whether the fat person actually likes the thin person very much, or vice versa.

In my case, when I'm fat and eating what I like and drinking what I want, the world can have my last shilling, I'm liberal as the day is long, I judge nobody, and I'm happy, happy, happy. Positively Falstaffian, you might say, if you were in the mood for a literary reference. On the other hand, since I started denying myself all the things I like, I've become bitchy, deadline-obsessed, prone to violent fantasies, whingy, judgmental and, apparently, have developed a fine line in man-breast-beating histrionics. The Disappearing Me is frankly little more than a screaming gay stereotype!

Is this a good thing to be striving towards? Does it benefit anyone if my remaining years on this planet are governed by this wretched harridan? I mean, other than me, in terms of ‘my remaining years on this planet’ being in all probability significantly increased in number. What about the whole quality vs quantity argument, eh? If I go through the rest of my life as someone that the previous me wouldn’t recognise, am I even still me? Is everything meaningless, or should I go and get hopelessly lost on the swirly misty moors and drown and come back as a ghost and haunt my friends and family? And if I did, which version of me would turn up? Jolly, Falstaffian Me or bitchy Disappearing Me…and could I face eternity as a diaphanous demented skinny fuck…

Ahem…I begin to see what she means about my histrionics, you know. Anyway…on we go.

What? Oh, the result, yeah, sure – 19 stone 1.25 – another two pounds lost from somewhere, making 20 pounds lost in total after 13 weeks. So technically only a month behind my original schedule. Shall we start May over again tomorrow, would that be fun?

Er…no. No it wouldn’t. Blood was 5.4 this morning, so A-OK, and got back to the walking with a bit of a spring in my step today. Thing is, this having lost two pounds makes absolutely no bloody sense whatsoever – forgot to mention, I actually weighed yesterday morning, and I was 19 st 3.25 – maintaining the loss of last week, but no more. Hence my calculations from yesterday, and my expectations of having maintained today. Thing is, while the big, Falstaffian me kinda wants to pass round the foaming flagons of celebratory ale, and sing songs of hurrah and huzzah...the mean-spirited Disappearing Me has a vision of d, in the middle of the snoring night, doing Scooby Doo tiptoeing into the bathroom with a screwdriver, and adjusting the digital scales somehow, just to shut me the Hell up. 

See - this is the person we're gradually, inch by freaking inch, unleashing on the world...

Somebody pass the ice-cream...

Sigh - YES, of course I'm only kidding. More's the pity. Anyway, in an attempt to synthesise the Falstaff despite the Disapperaing, charge your foaming tankards and all that cobblers to the joy that is 20 pounds...