Pretending To Be Dead

"Hnnnnuuuuuurghhh!"
"Push harder baby!"
"Fnnnnninnnnnnn!"
"Bend your legs for me."
"Arrrrgllllllllllle!"
"Erm...not to be critical, but you're supposed to lock your hands behind your head."
It would be wrong to say I gave d A Look. It would also, just for the record, be wrong to say I threw something sharp and pointy at her head. But only because I couldn't reach anything, and anyway, in this position, I didn't have the strength to pluck a buttercup.
"Hey, don't look at me like that, you told me to go all military on your ass. Now give me fifty!"
"Don't take this wrong dear, but go fuck yourself!"
"Haven't got time dear, I need to get to work. Push!"
I pushed, mainly to stop her telling me to push. I gave her ten sloppy, deeply non-regulation sit-ups, and then lay panting on the floor, pretending to be dead.
"You can't sleep there," she said, bending down to kiss me before disappearing through the door. "Get up ya lazy git," she added with affection.
I pretended even harder to be dead. It came quite naturally to me at the time.

Eventually, after the passing of a few cool aeons, and after I'd noticed things under the couch that I'd lost a couple of years ago, I crawled painfully to my feet. The thing about this 'sit-ups before work' lark is that, as far as my body's concerned, for this particular type of exercise, it's still March 2011. Whereas, blisters notwithstanding, my stamina for walking has increased exponentially since then, as far as ab-crunching, or come to that bicep-curling's concerned, I'm still a big fat flabby fuck that they can kick around cos I'm playing entirely on their court. They hurt! Not massively, not for long, not 'oh crap, I've snapped something' hurt, just in-the-moment kill-me-now-please-it'll-be-quicker hurt.

Still...

I haven't forgotten it's Tuesday, so here you go - results for the day:

16 stone, 12.5!!!

Scuse me, I have some deeply undignified dancing around to do...

Doobeedoobedoodoodoo...shakalakkalakkaboom, shakkalakkalakka...

Ahhh...Sooo, yeah - smashed through the 3.5 stone barrier, for the Brits, now lost 50.5 pounds, for the Americans, or 23 kg, for the Metric-friendly Europeans and others. Happy happy boy, ab-crunch shenanigans notwithstanding. True, had I been sticking to my plan, losing two pounds a week, I should now have lost 64 pounds - a whole extra stone, but still, given one thing and another, I'm pleased with the way that things are going, and that they're still going at all by this point.

Oddly enough, the 'next boundary to cross' in my head automatically clicked over, from 17 stone to 15 stone (buggered if I know what happened to 16 stone in the reckoning, and trust me when I say I'm not ignoring the potential bastardy of getting to 16 stone - it's just that's what happened in my head). 

I sort of have a mini-project now. A mini-race, if you like. It's now October 11th. I turn 40 on October 22nd. That's 11 days, for the numerically-challenged among us. My four-stone marker is 16 stone, 7.5 - or five pounds away. I would love to be able to say I'd hit the four-stone mark on my 40th birthday - partly for the sheer numerical symmetry of the thing, partly because I genuinely don't remember the last time I was 16 stone 7.5, and partly to give me a real upsurge of positivity on the day in terms of 'what a stubborn bastard can do when he puts his mind to it'...erm...ness.

d was funny this morning, saying I'd be 'catching her up' soon. This is patently ludicrous, she's waaaaay below me, and only about an inch shorter, if that. I think there's some sort of message here, that I touched upon way back in the very first entry in this blog. Everybody thinks they're fat these days -we're bombarded with that message everywhere we go, while also shown the images to which we should allegedly aspire. But whoever you are, take a freakin' chill pill. The likelihood is - you're not as fat as you think you are The likelihood is I'm still waaaaay fatter than you, and I'm a happy happy boy today, dancin' about the place on a wave of nauseating self-congratulation for an achievement that is, when all's said and done, the result of exchanging one addiction for what is probably another.

Keep calm, be happy, and have a jammie dodger...

And please excuse me if I bite your face off to try and get at it. I'd kill for a jammie dodger right about now...