Well, Hell, stand IN your beds if you like, what do I care. Y'know what, let me take another crack at this...
Alrighty, lay in your beds!
Well, the results of this morning's weigh-in are disappointing, looked at one way. I failed to lose my regulation two pounds this week. I did lose a pound and a half though, so it's only the tiniest bit disappointing, even if looked at that way. But you know what? I'm determined not to look at it that way. I'm gonna turn that frown upside-down, even if I have to stand on my head to do it, because, looked at from that angle, the result is great and meaningful and party-worthy and deserves a night off. Which of course, I had last night, so there we go - let's say I suffer from premature celebration, and get on with the facts of the thing, which are these:
Weight this morning: 18 stone, 7.5.
That, in case you're new to this inane flab-related rambling, means I've lost exactly two stones.
(A friendly clueless tumbleweed tumbles by).
Yeah, you see, this only makes sense in Britain, where our numbering system appears to date back to the Druids (well, who else would you imagine counting in stones?). In America, of course, you share our system of pounds, but being of a relatively well-ordered mindset, you just keep 'em coming, the numbers climbing in a well-established, mathematically-respectable fashion. To my American friends, this morning's headline simply means I've lost some 28 pounds since starting this demented experiment...which is all very well, but lacks a certain something in terms of headline drama. For my European, Australian and other modern friends who use the equally mathematically-sound metric system of kilos, it means I've lost 12.7 kg - which takes the remaining whiff of drama and pours it right down the drain, frankly.
But, here in Britain, where every fourteen pounds equals one stone (Why fourteen? Who the Hell knows? It's probably something to do with the mystical cycles of the Solstices or something equally mental: never trust a race who make great stone circles and then lose the instructions, that's what I say), I can still claim that today's announcement is significant, because it's a marker-point in this quest. When I started, I had some nine stones to lose (those of you who've been with me for a while will know we did all the conversions of this number early on; those of you who haven't, remedial conversion classes will be available throughout the Summer, when you should be out having fun). Now, I have just seven.
Naturally, when I say 'just seven', what I mean is seven long, slogging, evil-bastard stones of self-denial, salad and static cycling, but since we're talking about mathematical principles, allow me the thought that seven is less than nine, cos it's a happy little thought, and we all need those just to get through the day. Two stone is more than a fifth of the way to my target weight. In fact, having just briefly abused a calculator, I can tell you that in 3.5 pounds more, I'll have lost exactly one quarter of my excess weight, so yes, frankly, when I reach 18 stone 4, there will be another impromptu moment of celebration that I'll probably have to explain. And I shall.
Now of course, this wouldn't be my blog if it didn't have a little miserygutsing in it. If I'm honest, two stone feels pretty much like the training-wheels section of the journey, the bit you do just to prove you're serious this time, goddammit. Two stone feels positive but vulnerable, in need of constant reassurance and renewed effort not to slide slickly back to its former (happy, let's not forget!) ways. I'd really like to bitchslap two stone out of the way and sprint towards the safer ground of the 18 stone marker, just so it knows there's no going back and Hellyeah, I'm serious. In fact, I want to rush on to the three-stone-lost marker, because three stone is what fraction of nine stone...? Anyone...? That's right, it's a third, isn't it? That will feel like a proper benchmark, something to say I've done. Completing 'a bit more than a fifth' of the task is nice of course, but it's not the kind of place at which you can stop and rest on your laurels. Go ahead, ask a bridge builder. Or a cardiologist, come to that.
So, the briefest of hoorahs for me from all the Brits in the house, while all the people with more sense than to trust a Druid scratch their heads and go "Whatever, dude", then on we jolly well go. Next stop, 18 stone 4. Then 18 stone. Then 17 stone 7.5...
OK, seriously, let me have another go at that.
Next stop - the future!
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