The Disappointing Man

OK, so week 1 of the new Disappearing done.
Weigh-in this morning was: 18st 11.25
Just 2.5 pounds down. Good for a normal week, not so good for a first week back. On the other hand, there were about four days in the middle of the week where I did no exercise to speak of, so I have to be content with that. Have to be. If nothing else, it's effort put in and results delivered - going in the right direction. Have to try and be a bit more dedicated this week though.

Of course, saying that, I've been in Starbucks all day, and have done buggerall in the way of exercise today either, bar a paltry 250 caloriesworth of walking about. But if you're going to count that, you might as well count breathing as exercise.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow we start cracking the hell down. Would like to actually reach 18st 7 by next Tuesday, but of course that depends entirely on effort put in.

On the upside, blood control seems to have come sharply and swiftly within my remit - starting with numbers over 7, I'm now down to 5.4 two days ago, and 5.2 this morning, so that's pleasing. But as I say, while enjoying the fact that the movement is in the right direction, I'm just slightly disappointed by today's result. But it's inspiring me to do better and to keep pushing on, rather than to say "What's the point?" and eat doughnuts.

Mmmmm....doughnutttttts...

Ach - Out of here, still lots to do before the day's over. Onward!

The Anti-Motivation Ray

Every now and again, on a random basis, every person in the world is hit by an "Ah, Fuck It" ray. There's probably a supervillain behind it - The Red Sloth or somesuch thing. And it usually hits overnight, so whatever plans you had for the day, you stumble out of bed, yawn, stretch, scratch your ass and say "Ah, Fuck It."

Today was an Ah Fuck It Ray day.

Intended to bike early. Didn't get out of bed till gone 10. Had a couple of pieces to write and an edit to make progress on. But as it turned out, there was important sitting on my ass that needed doing, so instead I crossed that off my list.

No exercise, bar a bit of a walk (165 caloriesworth), then breakfast of three Weetabix (no banana). Three bowls (yes, three) of chicken noodle casserole, and one McDonalds chicken salsa supreme (515 calories). Could probably have productively added some biking into that, and thought about it.

Thought about it while sitting on my ass, on my couch, watching, as it happened, episodes of Series 7 of Doctor Who.

Went out tonight - hence the McDonalds - and watched The Imitation Game. Good movie. Always makes me melancholy to think of what happened to Turing.

Tomorrow, d has a day shift in work, and a night bingo party to be in. I'm doing my thing - jumping on a train to Cardiff, and hoping to do the things I would have done today, had I not become a mindless pawn of the Sloth. Which includes coming home at a reasonable hour and biking some of my ass off. Need to push to make progress by Tuesday.

The Single Second Swoon Fiasco

Hmm...
Well, another Starbucks day today, so again, no biking early, no blood testing, but a brisk morning stroll around the building site that is my town to get the train. Round about ten it occurred to me that yesterday, my favourite Starbucks ran out of sweeteners. Now we all know I like to suck all conceivable joy and pleasure out of the coffee-drinking experience, by stripping out the fat, the caffeine and the sugar, and either not replacing them at all, or replacing them will fakery and bullshit - after all, I'm a journalist, fakery and bullshit are my stock in trade. So I actually left my briefcase and computer in my usual Starbucks, and went up to another branch, to grab one to go, and a couple of massive meaty pawfulls of sweeteners, to take back to 'my' place for the rest of the day.
I ordered my "Venti Decaff Skinny Latte, With a Shot of Sugar-Free Hazelnut Syrup, To Go" (I know, I know, but bite me, it's still less to say than my cold option of Disappearing choice), and bam!
The Catherine Wheel in my chest started circling. My head started swimming. I felt the weird, vaguely blacked-out sensation round the edges of my vision, and gripped the counter to stop from falling over. Then it began in earnest - the walk that became a trot in my chest. The trot that broke into a canter. And the canter that neighed and tossed its head and opened up into a full gallop.
"Ah, crap!" I said. The barista looked at me sharply - they don't know me there. I coughed. "Sorry," I murmured.
It wasn't easing off as I did some deep breathing. I looked for the right place in this new and unfamiliar Starbucks. Sighed.
"Sorry," I said again. "I'm gonna do something that's gonna look a bit weird, but honestly, I'm not a weirdo. Don't panic, it's a heart thing."
She glared at me - clearly, it's a bad idea to announce you're about to do a weird thing, even if you're rational enough to explain that you know it looks like a weird thing.
I went and lay on the floor, put my feet up on a chair.
No sooner had I stretched out on the floor and taken one breath than the gallop broke, straight back to a trot, and then back to a walk. I lay there for a few more breaths, just to make sure I was good, then stood up and collected my coffee, remembering the handfulls of sweeteners, and high-tailed it back to my Starbucks.

No biking tonight either - so sue me!
Meal tonight was chicken, a little pasta, some beans, and a little bread. I know, technically two carbs on the same plate, but small portions of everything, so I'm rally not gonna stress about it. Chest feels...interesting tonight. Not tight exactly, but not absolutely entirely spiffing either. Will see how I feel in the morning, but am hoping to get back on the bike before breakfast.
Humph - can do without such setbacks when I'm genuinely trying to make some progress.

The Creamy Goodness Temptation

Alright so yesterday, with one biking session under my belt, d pulled rank on me.
'No biking,' she said. 'Get your ass in the bath and soak, Mister. No use pedalling your ass into oblivion if you can't move in the morning.'
So I duly got my ass in the bath.

This morning, I decided to get some real work done and hied myself to Starbucks, where I get shedloads done, so there was neither biking nor breakfast nor blood testing.
What there was in its place was the creamy goodness temptation.

It's apparently the Holiday Season - seems to be the Holiday Quarter these days, but whatever. That means there are a bunch of creamy delights at my coffee shop of choice - toffee nut this, and peppermint that, and so on.
Spent the majority of the day there, working, and managed to not falter - I was Mr Decaff Skinny Light Shite all day long, thankyouverymuch - and no falling asleep either.

Came home, having had no actual solid food all day, and did a stint on the bike. Moderately disappointing - only 400 calories burned - but have done a couple of hundred calories of walking today too, so that's not so bad. Had a big-ish dinner: d's on a pasta and meatball kick, and to be fair, the meatballs rocked.

All in all, should be within my daily calorie allowance, so not panicking as yet about the preponderance of carbs in my life this week. I refuse to go entirely nuts this early on in the process - you have to pace yourself with your nuts-going, and, y'know, Christmas is coming.

Back to Starbucks in the morning for more creamy goodness temptation, but I think having done a day, I should be OK to do another. From past experience, every day you do right, it gets just a little easier to do the same right again.

But hey, what do I know? We'll see what happens on Tuesday, right?

The Ninja Banana Controversy

OK, so something weird's happening.

For reasons largely connected to my mother showing me a magazine article talking about "the hidden sugar" in ordinary foods, I haven't eaten bananas for a while.

Except since I started back with the Disappearing on Monday, I've had one every morning on top of my rationed, otherwise quite boring-ass Weetabix as part of the whole 'healthy diet' joyfest.

And both yesterday and today, I'm good for abbbbsolutely nothing for several hours.

d thinks it's the cereal itself, but then I've been having relatively massive bowlfuls of cereal on a daily basis, sometimes twice a day, so you'd think my system was accustomed to that. But I seem to be in the situation of being knocked on my ass...by a lone banana. Cue weird images of a ninja banana with a black bandana doing ju-jitsu in a sort of Jackie Chan, Bruce Lee, Big Bad style. Screw pyjamas, you're not telling me that Banans in Bandanas couldn't work as a surprise Manga hit!

Certainly, I agree that it's something about breakfast that's doing this to me - Biked my 600 calories this morning, then tested my blood and it was ok at 6.4. Since then, had breakfast and good for bloody nothing.

Gonna try, tomorrow, and eschew the last banana in the bag, try sticking to just the cereal, and see if perhaps I can still speak and write coherent sentecnes by lunchtime.

Last night's second biking stint was a pain, frankly - only managed 250 calories burned. On the upside, I did 354 caloriesworth of walking yesterday too. So all in all, 1200 calories burned through exercise of one form or another yesterday. Food intake was the same as the day before+2 additional slices of toast - cereal and banana for breakfast, soup and toast for lunch, pasta (with those two additional slices of toast, for the crunch) for dinner, and buggerall else. Should be a reasonable recipe for reasonable loss, though I'm conscious of course of the relatively high carb-count in all that. Guess we'll see six days from now what happens.

Meanwhile - lunchtime.

The Inaugural Numbers

So here we go:
The launch number for this iteration of Disappearing is 18st 13.75 - jussssst about as barely inside the 18s as possible. Six weeks from now, I hope to be 17st 13.75. Fourteen pounds in six weeks is slightly more than the medically-advised 2lbs a week, but I'm hoping the initial two-week bump of water-loss will work in my favour.

Back on the bike this morning. Harder to push this morning than yesterday, to be honest, but did my 600 calorie burn in the hour. Blood was 6.1 this morning - which is more like it. 

Feel like a Starbucks day, but not doing that today. Possibly Friday, when d has her next full-day shift. As I write this, I'm almost falling asleep, and it's just 10.13 in the morning. Have had my regulation three Weetabix and a banana, but it feels like I've done a line of doughnuts, frankly - could just close my eyes.

Sigh - up, at 'em, day job to do.

The Two Snooze Starter

So let's see. The alarm went off this morning. That much I know.
See, the thing about now being deaf in one ear is that, if I happen to be sleeping on my left side, the alarm can yell, scream, and screech till steam comes out of its little digital lugholes, and I hear buggerall.
I know it went off this morning though, because I'm married to someone who's not deaf in either ear.

And has sharp elbows.

I slammed the snooze button twice. Turned very specifically to lay on my left side.

The alarm borrowed an elbow again, and I slid into a kind of consciousness, out of a kind of bed, and onto a kind of exercise bike. An hour of pumping music - Kaiser Chiefs, and some heavy Queen - got the legs pumping and the sweat flowing. Burned 600 calories in the hour, which was pleasing - it's the sort of number I was burning at the height of the Disappearing last time, but of course, there's a certain degree to which excitement at starting the new Disappearing will probably have made me pedal faster.

Anyhow, felt good to get that done - a big initiatory tick. Showered, and tested my blood - see, told you I knew where it was this time. 8.1 - which is a bit over what it should be for a British diabetic, especially having burned that number of calories just beforehand. Must Do Better, as my school reports used to say.

Sat on my ass for several hours, doing my day-job, then had a lunch - a cold can of tomato and chilli soup (I'm saying this largely because I know I have friends who'll shudder at the thought of it) with three slices of buttered toast. Round about six o'clock, did as I'd intended and went back for a second session on the bike - with less in the way of pumping music, more in the way of audiobookery, so as not to overstrain the muscles on Day 1 and be what doctors describe as 'bastard-useless' tomorrow.

Dinner tonight was a pasta in a gorgeous amatriciana sauce, home made by d. Not too much...I don't think, so evidence of portion control from my girl there, for which the Disappearing part of me is grateful.

So given that I woke up thinking I might not drag my enormo-ass out of the bed at all, turns out that Day 1 was almost textbook. Double exercise, allowed food intake, portion control. Posssssibly - just possibly - a small paracetamol to go to bed tonight, so I can get up in the morning and do it again. But as first days go, this is what I wanted to be reporting at this point.

Tomorrow of course is my inaugural weigh-in for this time round. It's an odd thing - I know it's going to be bad news (over 19 stone, probably, in spite of today), but it's about the only time in a Disappearing that you get a freebie. Whatever the Nazi Scales say in the morning, it's the benchmark from which I launch the effort, so it almost doesn't matter. But here's hoping for a bump into the 18s, rather than starting out in the 19s.

Last Chance To Binge

Sunday. The preparatory day. The day before everything great, and everything that sucks the sould and the joy out of life - or Monday, as it's more colloquially known.

I don't feel that tomorrow's going to be a typical Monday. I mean, yes, there'll be the usual "Who are you again?" sensation of seeing my colleagues, albeit on Skype (did I mention? Love working from home), but by the time that happens tomorrow, I'll have biked for an hour. I'll have taken the first steps back towards a productively Disappeared future.

Today has, it's fair to say, not been full of steps back towards a productively Disappeared future.

Had a McDonalds breakfast with d before she went to work, and yes, I had a double sausage and egg muffin, and yes, I had it as a meal, and yes, I enjoyed every mouthful of it. It was like saying farewell to a greasy, moderately gross old friend. If it helps, I had water as my drink, rather than the caramel frappe that was winking at me, swaying its creamy hips from the menu board. I eschewed it. I told it "shoo." If we're going to be huuuuggely generous to me, we could call that a one-all draw.
Then I did a day of 'being a good son.' Went with Ma on a three mile hike, which only stopped itself being somewhat more like a six-mile hike when we encountered a big barred gate with signs on saying, in slightly more convoluted language, "Sure, you can come over the gate if you like. Can't guarantee it's not a minefield though. Just sayin'..."

Did what I believe my American friends call 'Yard Work' for a while, sweeping leaves from where they clearly wanted to be to where Ma wanted them to be (in a bag), and then dumping them out front, so that, when the wind blows, they can escape and scatter themselves over other people's front yards. Fairly sure this sort of nonsense is why I've never been overly keen to have a yard till now, but there it is. Flipped my mother's mattress (nothing marks the advance of years more, I find, than being invited into one's parent's bedroom to do stuff they would previously have done with their spouse). Then I ate a Ma dinner.

My mother, bless her, has an interestingly limited repertoire when it comes to food preparation. She's mostly of the mind that there's much more interesting stuff to do (a mindset I rather share), and so, throughout the whole of my life, she has frequently substituted quantity for what might otherwise be thought of as quality. Vast quantities of rice, or pasta, or potato were offset in her case by the vast quantities of salad with which she padded out her own plate. For those of us who are rather more vitamin-averse, the space on the plate was always double-heaped with gorgeous, gorgeous carb.
One thing she does reasonably well (or perhaps we all think that about our mothers) is the traditional "Sunday dinner". Nowadays, it would be fair to say that it's one thing Waitrose does reasonably well, but she warms it up like a pro, bless her. And there's sooooo much of it.

I ate the whole thing without complaint today. And then yes thank you, I'll have a couple of mince pies with cream, as I haven't had any yet this year and after these, I'm not going to...

Just when you think there'd be no room left in me, I came home and had a bowl of Bran Flakes, jsut...because. My step-counter for the day logged 8977, across a distance of 4.2 miles, burning off 469 calories (this doesn't actually include the yard work, so part of my wheedling little personality is whispering "So, more than 500 calories really, in all probability"). So, ultimately, I've worked off the double sausage muffin today. Still probably over my 'allotted' calorie allowance for the day, but that, as I said at the start, is the nature of the day before, the day before you start something big, and long-haul, and slow, and patient, and starey-eyed determined.

Tomorrow, we bike at 7.30. And we bike again at 5 or 5-abouts. Tomorrow I say no to things that taste good and feel good, because the feeling of having eaten them is bad. The feeling of being this way is bad.

The idea of not feeling bad any more is what makes tomorrow feel like a beautiful thing.

The Upside of Self-Loathing

Hello! (Echoes of 'Hello!', 'Hello!', 'Hello!' reverberate through the chasm of this blog).

Been a while. I've meant to update you after every weekly weigh-in. Suffice it to say I've been playing hopscotch back and forth over the State Line of 19 stone (266 pounds) for several weeks - one week, 19st 4, the next, 18st 13, the next, 19st 1, the next 18st 11.5, the next 18st 13).

Last week's weigh-in was 18st 13.
Needless to say, discipline has been nowhere to be seen of late. On the upside, I have finally finished a solid draft of my novel...preeetty much since I last wrote anything in this blog, so there you go - discipline has been rather funneled down that particular rabbit-hole. Back to the editing game now, leaving the novel aside until later this month, when I intend to go through it again and Make It Funny, which is something I think perhaps it sorely lacks at the minute, given the premise and the potential for Funny Stuff To Happen.

In the meantime, physical self-loathing and self-destructive behaviour rules, ok? Have done stupid shit even actively knowing it's stupid shit - went to the movies one night, and had both ice cream and Pick 'n' Mix. Haven't been walking very regularly at all, and despite the good intentions that have seen me vow to get back on the bike or go to the gym, very much in the region of buggerall has actually come of these good intentions.

But that stops - again, I know, I know - now. Or technically, that stops Monday morning, but hopefully tomorrow will see me start to blister the bejesus out of my feet again, as am going walking with Ma.
I figure, at 19 stone, give or take a damn, it doesn't actually take that much to start me making progress again. We all know that in the first two weeks of actually trying to do this shit, I'll lose a good few pounds, simply of water as my body goes "Oh look...he's trying again...how sweet..."
But the point is to actually try. To commit to making an effort, and maintain it.
I'm thinking: on the bike, every morning (unless doing something else appallingly physical with Ma) - at 7.30. Can then do an hour of dedicated biking and shower before technically the day job requires me to be at my desk. Am thinking a return to Sensible Breakfasts - ie 2 Weetabix, rather than an enormo-bowl of Bran Flakes. I'm thinking beginning a new blood testing chart and regime - and yes, before you go "Ah, but do you know where the testing kit is, cos that always scuppers you" - I'm looking at the needle right now, so nehh. If nothing else, facing the daily judgment of the blood test will give me something to hold me accountable for my actions, rather than the weekly judgment of the weigh-in - which my devious brain is full of stratagems for getting around by now. I'm thinking appalling healthy snacks - apples and carrots and suchlike vegetarian garbage. And I'm thinking the heaviest meal in the day being lunchtime, not dinner time. More protein, less carb. Fewer Starbucks-fests, because even with my decaff-skinny-imitation-coffee malarkey, it's still a lot of milk in any given day. Also, of course, costs a shedload! Perhaps an hour's biking every evening too - 5pm-6pm, which tends to be sort of weird ghostly wasted time at present (I've rather fallen under the thrall of a pointless game called Hay Day - might be time to knock that on the head too, so as to free up more time).

I'm also thinking to set short-term, more realistic goals. It's the middle of November now and I'm probably going to weigh at least 19 stone on Tuesday. If I can get down to 18 stone by Christmas - or perhaps, as an extra-special Yuletide bonus, if I can see a 17 stone 13 - that would perversely feel like excellent progress. Yes, technically, it would be roughly what I weighed on my 40th birthday, more than three years ago, but looking back at the photos of that day, while I'm chunky, I'm a lot more like the me I want to be in them than I am in my mirror today. Say I start the new year at 17st 13, if I can be under 17 stone by the end of February, that would be excellent. To see a 16, given that I'm now probably over 19, would be really invigorating. If I can see a 15 by the end of April - excellent. Which means if I can see a 14 by the end of June, I'll be utterly thrilled. And at that point, we reassess where we are and what we're doing. Pretty much half a year, broken into chunks of achievable goal. but only achievable of course if I get my ass moving and do the things I set out to do. We all know that I'm capable of doing them - that's perhaps the most galling thing - having gotten there once (admittedly with a degree of massively unpleasant chemical help), I know what the good place feels like. This - where I am right now - does not feel like a good place. It feels like a boulder of worry on my shoulders, avoiding mirrors, avoiding eyes, knowing there's both pity and contempt in them. Knowing that no matter how I strive to dress to minimise the effects of three fairly solid years of eating madly, I still look wrong. Knowing that I've worked perversely, particularly hard to get back to looking like this - and believe me I have, the excesses, when they've happened, have been obscene, and feel akin to silent, secret dragging of a blade across skin. Except of course there's ultimately nothing secretive about my self-harm. Not only do I come here and tell you about it, but it's marked on the body for you all to see - look, look - Fat Man Walking. Roll up, roll up, see the Disappearing Failure.

The upside of such maudlin self-loathing of course is that if you can harness it right, it can power you on. It's been three years since I stopped actively Disappearing, and started working, one way or another, towards regaining all the weight I worked so monstrously hard to get rid of. You need, on some quiet, still, steel-rod level, to go to war with yourself to do either half of this - the Disappearing, or the Rebuilding. Because the impulse is itself a bifurcation of the mind. The impulse to eat the wrong stuff, and do nothing in the way of exercise makes so much sense, it's almost frightening. But the impulse to eat the right stuff, and move your ass, is a gateway to things you want to do, not least of which is in all probability living longer. As an atheist, I get no second chances. Being a good person doesn't get me another bite of the cherry of life - it just gives me a warm glow of satisfaction. But in terms of living, this is all I get. I don't want to regret any more years of not being able to do stuff. And yes, I'm back in that category - there's stuff I'd like to do that I'm not physically able to do as a result of my weight. That, when you really break it down, is just bullshit. It's time to begin the climb again. The climb down from the high numbers to those that allow my body to work more effectively, to carry me through life with less strain and stress, and allow me to do some of the things I want to do. As I say, technically this begins Monday. And so does the resumption of more regular reports to you lot (such as you are - anyone still out there?). Again, having to report the day to you is an incentive not to fill the day with stupid shit: it actually used to work that way - many's the day when the thought of having to admit a degree of failure on this blog stopped me failing. So let's see. As I say - objective 1: 17 stone 13 by New Year. Six weeks, at least 14 pounds - I'm essentially counting on the water loss bump in the first two weeks to make this any kind of possibility. But that's Base Camp for The Disappearing Man 2015.

Come back, come along - there's still plenty of bitching to do, I promise.