The 45 Deadline

Hello there.

Yes, yes, back again. It's been pointed out to me by several people that the blurb of this blog still says it's the journey of a single year in the life of a man...yadda yadda yadda, and yet here we are - a year from now I will be 45. In fact, pretty much eleven months from now I'll be 45, and when I started this blog waaaay back in the day, I would be turning 40 during the 'Year of Disappearing.'

The horrible truth is that I have been for some time out of all control, 'out of all compass' as Shakespeare says of the famously fat Falstaff.

I weighed in today at 18stone, 12.25 lbs. 264 lbs, for my American friends. Still some 23lbs lighter than I was when I originally started, but still, - pretty damned heavy.

Recently, it's felt utterly compulsive again, rather than for the purposes of enjoyment or rational feeding. I've felt like I've been whipped by my own brain to try and destroy my body. I have no enormously productive idea why one part of myself should want to do that to another, but there it is nonetheless.

And so, we begin again. I do not want to be this way, I want to be an entirely other way. I want to wear clothes without having to think about them, without having to worry about them and most of all without having the unconscious gag reflex when I see myself in them.

I want, ideally, not to be one of those people that people shake their heads about sadly at their funerals, and mutter about them being 'a fool to themselves.' I'll be a fool for anyone and anything you understand, but it seems the very acme of redundancy to die for foolishness. I say this of course in the week when a lot of people who had, as far as we can tell, no desire to die were killed by the foolishness of others, but obviously that wasn't their fault. As far as is humanly possible, I don't want my death to be my own fault either. I want the bastard that is clamshell packaging to get me, to burst a blood vessel in pointless frustration aged 97 trying to open a new pair of earphones and be done before I hit the floor. I don't want to be a statistic of self-destruction.

And so, as I say, we clear the decks, we jump on the exercise bike, we pedal. And so begins another year - a year of aiming to lost five stone at minimum before I hit 45.

Here we go again...

Ever Increasing Circles

Yes, yes, I know, I'm like a drunk-ass boyfriend - you only hear from me when I need something from you, then I'm off, doing my thing, 'being busy,' leaving you to raise the young 'uns.

I'm back. Y'know you love me, darlin'...

Reason I'm back is a) I have about three minutes in which to BE back, and b) I'm way out of control again. Since finishing Draft 3 of my novel, I've been on a bit of a celebratory bender, with the result that I find myself more than half a stone higher than I was before I finished it, with the work to do all over again. Fun fun fun. Proper weigh-in tomorrow, but it's likely to be shocking.

So this morning, I started back to my walking schtick. Only six times round the local Thomastown Park, but the thing about Thomastown is it's like one of those omni-trainers - it's basically like a sort of sculpted garden version of a crop circle - circles on circles, some flat and small, some large and up and down hill. Six time round means three easy, three hard, just about two miles in total, 300 calories burned. Big whoop, I know, but it's a start when I haven't been doing anything much for weeks. Now if I can manage to get through the day without eating everything and dessert on top, that'd be a bonus. Usual stuff - clothes aren't fitting right, finding it harder to do simple things, have to knuckle down yadda yadda yadda. So have made a start. A tiny, barely perceptible start. Gonna try and keep this up for the whole of this first week, 7am starts, walking increasing numbers of circles - adding one easy and one hard per day, which should mean fourteen circles by Friday. If six equate to 2 miles, then fourteen should be 4-5 miles. Should be a good re-introduction for the muscles and lungs, and get me back up to speed for proper six milers next week.

Must not eat everything, must not eat everything, must not eat every goddamn double-frosted thing int he wooooooorld!

The Celebratory Train Wreck

I finished Draft Three of my novel this week. Weighed in on Tuesday at 18st 0.75, which wasn’t too bad, but I’m going to be absolutely honest with you here – since then, I’ve had a few days of notsomuch going off the rails as ripping up the rails and juggling the damn things. I find myself on Sunday, having been out for a celebratory lunch with d, feeling absolutely horrid and huge, bloated to the point where you could squeeze me like a giant, overripe zit. This clearly needs to stop, and I also need to stop taking celebrations as excuses to drive my bodily car into a rock face at 125 miles per freakin’ hour. Enough. As luck would have it, tomorrow’s a Monday, the day for starting ill-thought-out endeavours like weeks and suchlike other mistakes. Tomorrow then, we knuckle down and reinstall some discipline into the daily routine.

The Rainmaker’s List

Have you ever said, with a determined look on your face, ‘tomorrow, dammit, I hang out laundry’?

Annnnd what happened?

Yeah. Thought so. Same thing as happened to me today, probably, after having confidently declared that ‘weather permitting, tomorrow I walk!’

Yyyyeah, notsomuch, as the rain it raineth every piggin’ day on planned parades.

‘So – you bikin’ then?’ is, I know, the next most logical question on your eager lips. To which the answer is likewise notsomuch – If this counts for anything, I’ve wiped about six or seven things off my To-Do List today – eight if you include ‘Blog,’ which, to be fair, I hadn’t today, but have on many another day. No – having woken up and weighed and found myself back within a quarter-pound of 18 stone (what a difference a day makes, as the song has it), I’ve been focusing on clearing the crap and the clutter out of my List of the many, many things I’ve had to do. While the philosophical funk remains, the more that finally disappears off that list, the lighter my mind feels about the day-to-day doing of things. So…. Yeah – lighter mind, lighter body?

No, I know, no-one’s buying that one, and nor should they, to be fair. But I feel better in any case. Have just a smidgen more time, so may just about manage to cross one more thing off my list before the day’s out. Starbucking tomorrow and Friday, but with chances of walking and biking on both days. Tomorrow’s d’s Hereversary though – 11 years ago tomorrow she landed in the UK for good, and we began the mad (and I do mean mad) run-up of things to still be done before our wedding. It’s jusssst possible there’ll be sumptuous amounts of food involved in celebrating tomorrow. Still – let’s see.

Return of the Master Suit - Tuesday, 18th August

Disappointing – and yet entirely understandable – weigh-in results today – 18st 2 pounds. Am entirely out of practice at the walking now, and my biking this week has been quixotic at best. As I said though – new week, new intent, and on we go. Weather permitting, tomorrow I walk.

Yesterday was a sobering time – as I mentioned, attended the funeral of a good friends of my childhood. Turns out she was 71 when she died a week or so ago. Somewhere along the line, I’ve entirely failed to register that I’m 43, rapidly heading to 44. This doesn’t seem entirely possible, somehow, but it’s a weird calling-card from Death and a note of one’s own mortality. Not that that’s a spur particularly – am in what seems to be a philosophical funk right now, more befitting a teenager determined to paint their bedroom black, slam doors and declare they never asked to be born. Pathetic, of course. One of those situations where the only thing that stops the world from fundamentally changing for the better is the courage to act. Notsomuch one’s own mortality then, more one’s own cowardice. 

I clothed it yesterday in an unexpected pleasure. I haven’t had occasion to wear a suit for a year or more, and while a funeral is never an especially happy occasion, it gave me a reason to try and pull on the Master Suit. The Master Suit, for those just tuning in, is a suit I bought while disappearing the first time – my first off-the-peg suit in the best part of a decade, because I’d previously always had to go to places like High & Mighty – or Big Fat Bastards as we colloquially call it in my family – to get such things. The Master Suit was a hallmark, a landmark moment of original achievement. I had no illusions it would fit me again just yet, thinking it hadn’t been bought till I was in the lower half of the 17s. But while it wasn’t perhaps the most perfect fit – I couldn’t button the jacket just yet – the trousers did at least do up on me without pain and tears, and the jacket fit me without looking too absurd. Still a mark of triumph? Not as much as it was originally, obviously, but yes, a small mark of triumph, to be assured of still fitting into the landmarks of ‘normality’ as defined by the British retailer. A good spur to return to the fray with a determination that’s been hard to locate while under this shroud of philosophical funk and disappointing self-knowledge. So let’s see, shall we, whether the flash of scarlet lining and the sliding on of a suit of clothes can inspire me to carve out time in my days to do what needs to be done. While the funk remains, the Master Suit represents a slice of hope through the greyness. I intend to follow it, and see if it can lead me back to brighter times and courage.

The Mehness Ban

Meh. Meh with knobs on. Meh with knobs on and sprinkles of extra fine Mehness.

S’been that sort of week.

Wellll, I suppose it hasn’t, overall – got a couple of edits done, got some great news from authors, made some real progress editing my own book and that’s all good and groovy, but in terms of an eating regime or an exercise regime…meh.

I’ve had good moments this week – been weighing with the absurd regularity of a teenager, and there have been moments when I’ve thought ‘Yes! Like a boss!’ when I’ve done that. But as I write this, capturing my mood on a Sunday afternoon in Starbucks, with a verboten Strawberries and Cream sliding down like liquid guilt, I’m all about doing the Meh-Dance.

Going to the funeral of a friend of my childhood tomorrow (Monday). So part of me thinks ‘Fuck it, could be dead tomorrow.’ And then the altogether more sane and sensible part of my brain kicks in to say ‘Yyyyeah, but one of the main contributing factors to her early death was rampant alcoholism. So, pretty much unless you want to be dead tomorrow, get your goddamned game on, dickweed.’

The conflict between these two emotive directions appears to result in general humpiness and an overall sense of fundamental Mehness. But – new day, new week, new challenge to not be Meh. Life is what you make it and other assorted Disney bollocks. Let’s not make it Meh, cos that seems to be the crappiest obituary possible.

There you go – Mehness forbidden. Down with Mehness. One way or the other, let’s start the campaign for real emotions right here. Grey may have fifty shades, but let’s face facts – most of them are pointless. Starting Monday, Mehness will be banned.

So there.

The Last-Minute Post

Hello again. Am writing this right now mostly because I've had a demanding message from my pal Sian - she of the Grim Reaper inspirathon - saying 'Blog, will ya, I've got a boring lunchtime coming up!'

It occurs to me I've been meaning to blog since last Tuesday, when, inspired by her example, I found myself weighing in at 17st 13lbs again.
Since then, to be absolutely fair, I've had a bad Disappearing week. Rather too many frapuccinos, rather too much in the way of 'Gods, I'm so busy, I'll get on the bike tomorrow!'
So who knows what the Nazi Scales will say tomorrow? Prrrretty sure they won't say anything as positive as 17st 13, because, after all, why would they? You have to play the game to get the gain (or loss - hell, ya know what I mean), and this week hasn't really been a 'play the game' kind of week.

I will, however, be getting on the damned bike later on today for a proper sweatathon. I will, I will...
And yes, it will, it will mostly be out of a mixture of fear and contrition about what the morning brings.

Made an eye-opening mistake yesterday. Grabbed a formal shirt from the wardrobe because I was in a hurry. Happened to be one of the formal shirts I bought when I was pre-all Disappearing. Holy Hannah. technically, that was only 2.5 stones ago (35 pounds, Americans), but there's no way of making that thing sit right on my body any more. Of course, everything's relative - I got down 3.5 stones further than where I am right now, and I can only dimly remember the clothes I was wearing at that point. Still - a distinct eye-opener and a motivator to go the right way, rather than sliding backward.

On - to posting before lunchtime.

The Grimness Factor

As I write this, my pal Sian is in hour seven of a faintly ridiculous endurance ultra-marathon called, with what could be described as a fair degree of prescience, The Grim Reaper. She's running a hundred miles, through mud and crap. Because she can.

To me, this feels instinctively like the kind of thing for which 'because I can' is not really sufficient justification. 'Because I have to,' yes. But to do this for some sense of satisfaction - no. There are far too many books to read, frankly. Still - my hope is that she makes it through without actually dying. One of the last things she did last night before grabbing a few hours of sleep was to berate me that I hadn't written a blog entry in quite some time, and she's right of course. Two reasons - ridiculous busyness and little to say. Weighed in on Tuesday at 18st 2, which was actually down on the week before, but not by any particularly great amount. Miss the vague sense of triumph of being in the 17s, that's to be sure, and every now and again, it hits me that I'm only 4 stone away (56 pounds, Americans) from what I was at my lightest in this Disappearing Odyssey. Not even that, in fact - if I got to 14st 2, I'd be five pounds lighter than that lightest.

All told, that really doesn't seem like it should be too hard. I certainly need to redouble my efforts though, refocus my discipline, get back in the groove. Still technically have the blister that stopped me doing the walking that worked well to push me down the Stone ladder, though have rather taken to creamy Starbucks drinks again, the elimination of which could also only help my cause.

I guess the point is if you said to me - Lose four stone or run a hundred miles, I'd choose to lose four stone, because although it's a bit of a bastard, it's a liveable bastard, whereas running a hundred miles would by contrast be a dieable bastard - fairly convinced my body would give out if I asked it to run for an hour, let alone for a hundred miles.

Am starting to walk again Sunday - there. A decision. Hallelujah. Another line in another piece of sand. The blister's still there, but it's by no means interfering or painful any more. Time to get back into my boots and push the hell on.

UPDATE: Wrote this while Sian's run was ongoing. She finished in just under 25 hours. 100 miles. In fact she was the ninth person to finish, and the 'First Lady' - in fact, the only woman to complete the gruelling bastard. How inspiring, and yet and at the same time, how mad-as-fuck is that?

The Next Stone

OK, so things are not going as well as I’d have liked. Two weeks of relative disciplinary looseness mean that this morning I weighed in at 18st 2.75. V Bad, as Bridget Jones would say.

On the other hand, there’s a slightly grasping-at straws symmetry here that I intend to grasp while the grasping’s good. I started at 19st 3. Got down over a stone, faffed about a bit, and have bobbed back up to just over a stone of loss. Dedicated non-faffery for a few weeks should now push me down another stone, as my system, which will have grown slack again, tightens up and cottons on to the idea of that non-faffery being a fact of its life. I got back on the bike last night for the first time in some time, and intend to get back on it again tonight. Then to walk tomorrow morning before work…annnnd so we go back to a pattern of non-faffery in an attempt to conquer the next stone. 18st 2.7t may be v bad, but it feels like a good jumping off point to be v good for another fourteen pounds of fun. If I can push on down and conquer the 17 barrier, to bob back up to 17st 3, it will bring more dividends with it, and this might be a way of beating the plateau effect of the overall downward push. Could be nonsense of course, but might not be. Let’s find out.