Lunching With Miss Slinky

Ahhhhhh, but that was a good day.
I mean, seriously, a bouncy-up-and-downy, laughy, smiley good day.

First, it should be noted that we did some tidying up before we were wise this morning, with the glorious, rock and roll effect that I couldn't find my blood testing kit this morning. Too bad, so sad, it'll turn up when it's hungry, next!

Next, it has to be noted that I ate like a real person today. Clearly, attempts to batten down hatches and buckle down temptations are going wildly wrong at the moment, but today was worth it in so many ways that I probably won't care till Tuesday, when the Nazi Scales will hit me with big sticks.

But the joy of the day was Karen.

Sigh...I know, I live in a world of Karens - I have mentioned this before. Not Karen who shall be known as Mae, and who, as it happens, has a birthday tomorrow that I won't be attending. If memory serves, I didn't attend her last one either, though that was as a result of having something radically wrong with me (another tachycardic flourish, if I remember rightly) and spending much of the day in hospital.). Not her.

And not, on this occasion, Karen Pulley either, who has apparently learned she has something radically wrong with her knee and now needs to lose weight without actually involving her knees to any noticeable degree.

No, this was Karen my "Champion Slimmer" pal. Karen KrazyKlaws, as I've almost consistently thought of her for most of the last 25 years, for reasons that may not bear repeating, even in a blog that deals pretty honestly with all manner of fuckwittery and body-fluids. Karen Miniatures, as d has pretty much thought of her, due to a period when Karen was moderately obssessed with doll's houses and the infinitesimal paraphernalia that is needed to properly equip them. Karen who was my first literary collaborator, back in school, and who, for her sins and her dementia, still has a copy of the "Ode on a Cheesecake" that I wrote, while in her company, during one of the many lunchtimes we spent in the 6th Form Girls' Toilets...

If that sounds rather more seedy than you've come to expect, then clearly a) you don't know me at all, and b) you know that I'm now grinning at a job well done.

The thing is, as I've mentioned before in this blog, and as many of my friends can enthusiastically attest, I am altogether pretty crap at keeping in touch with people. I have just lived for about ten years in the same city as my mates Tig and Ray and Kirsteen and Alistair. I've seen them all about twice, maybe three times in that time, more or less because, when all was said and done, I couldn't get my shit together. With Karen, I haven't been in the same city (she's been here in Wales), but it's still a mark of my underlying crapulence that, as we worked it out today, we haven't actually seen each other in about ten years. Since before I had a wife, and since before her long-standing Bloke of the 21st Century, Brian, was (at least generally) her Bloke.

Saw them today - they came to us, and we went for a kick-ass Indian lunch. It was great to see her again, and great to meet him too for the first time (any bloke that doesn't like acres of corriander wantonly dropped on his food and can come out with a relevant Zarniwhoop reference off the cuff is fine by me - and if you don't know who Zarniwhoop is, then shame on you...). We talked, we laughed, she actually failed to get d's recipe for sexy spicy pork roast out of her (we'll be sending it on...), we ate good food, and Karen told us the story of how exactly she became a "Champion Slimmer"...

She was doing the Slimming World system, and apparently lost about 5.5 stone. Apparently, they have a system of stickers and badges and awards to motivate you as you go, and she was winninng all of them...with the exception of Man of the Year. Although she tells us that was a close-run thing, and, Karen being as competitive as she is, I absolutely believe her. One of the titles she won was "Miss Slinky".

We all grinned at that. We were sitting at lunch with Miss Slinky. I tore off a piece of naan bread and stuffed it in my mouth to quell the grin. I failed.

All I can tell you is that ten years on since I last saw her, Miss Slinky's looking damn good, and that I'm soooo gonna add that to her list of officially sanctioned nicknames.

"You're looking so weeny, I can't believe it!" she said when she arrived. We hugged - which in itself was a weird experience, cos last time, neither of us had lost the weight, and hugging was more of a chaotic procedure. Now, our arms went round each other with no fuss, which was a fabulous and frankly amazing sensation in itself. It's something that d has regularly remarked on - hugs that used to be barely finger-touching are now proper wrap-around jobs.

Liking this a lot.

"Cos, fair play, last time I saw you," she continued, "I was really worried about you. I didn't think you'd be with us for long. Not just cos you were so big, but you just looked so unhealthy...I didn't know what to do for you..."

This was pre-d of course, and indeed at the time I was on a collision course with an early grave - eating shedloads of carbs and fats and sugars, usually including three chocolate bars a day or more and litres and litres of Diet Coke.  Dunno if this was a factor, but I was also living with a heavy smoker, which probably doesn't do the look of you any good...
Of course, this was still long before I put on the final two pounds that made me look like the result of a love-tussle between Homer Simpson and the Goodyear Blimp, but still, her point was well-made. I've been that fat-fuck, staring into the barrel of a cardiac catastrophe and filling my face all the while.

She talked about how unhappy she'd been when her weight was high, and I nodded. I loved the experience of eating whatever I could get my hands on, but was it a sign of particular happiness? No, I don't think so. I'd be lying if I said I ever particular lay awake all night thinking "Oh, woe is me, my eating's gonna kill me..." and, as I recall, I started this blog in fine fuck-you style by avoiding all the usual psycho-babble people spout about why they become fat. Truth is of course, there were reasons for my fatness, motivations that led me to it, but I think it's important to remember that the biggest of those reasons was that I picked up the food and stuffed it into my face.

And then Miss Slinky identified a particular place in the weightloss battle. A place where I now find myself on a day-to-day basis. The place that is the Fuck-It Equivalency.

"When you're fat, and you think 'I can't buy clothes', your motivation is 'do I want that piece of cake more than I want to be able to fit into cool clothes, or do this activity, or feel good about myself or whatever'..." she explained. "Then you lose some, and you put the same question to yourself, 'do I want this piece of cake more than to be able to fit into cool clothes?'...and you think 'Well, I can fit into the cool clothes anyway, so I'll take the piece of cake please...'"

She's dead right. This doldrummish region of equivalency is where I am right now. Everybody has noticed the weightloss, I can fit into clothes I never dreamed of fitting into, my blood sugar control is much better than it's ever been before, and (whiny-ass fuckwittery notwithstanding), I'm feeling good and content with where I've come to. Which means the temptation to ease off and say "Y'know what, the water's lovely around here, maybe I'll stay at 15 stone for a bit..." is just huge. I can whitter on about the next four stone, but honestly, the resolve to get there, while not being broken in any sense, does feel kinda stretched out of shape like a knackered rubber band. It feels like I need a rest from it all, and that this is not a bad place to take a rest from it all...

But we all know that's a dangerous conceit, right?
You know it, I know it. It's that whole 'voice of Satan' thing again - the voice that makes you want to give in, to break the resolve, to stop the whole shebang and just be Normal again (whatever the fuck Normal means to you). The voice of your own self-rationalisation.

So, honestly, the will to carry on with this Disappearing lark is at an almost-all-time low. The will to bask in self-congratulation and the markers of success, at an all-time high. And, given the week and what I've eaten in it, the chances of Tuesday being anything but a sobering punch in the face from the Nazi Scales are practically non-existent. But I have to push through this place. Have to try and re-centre, re-focus. Re...erm...member that the goal is not cool clothes, or full hugs, fabulous as these side benefits are. The goal is to prove that I'm a stubborner bastard than I am a weak one, and to kick the arse of this diabetic bullshit once and for all. To get to the Promised Land of Better Freakin' Health. To get all the way to Better Freakin' Health, not just halfway there, and then hang out in the Oasis of Phew-You-Probably-Won't-Explode-And-Die-Now-But...

Onward, for fuck's sake. Onward...

Of course, Onward is a whole lot cooler now that Miss Slinky and Mr Zarniwhoop are back in the picture of my life. Did I mention this was a really good day?