Alrighty then - weigh-in day.
As of today, the weight we're dealing with is: 19st 6.25.
Down the regulation two pounds per week. Now, familiar as I am with the Disappearing process, I'd vaguely expected the initial water-weight loss to be rather more than that, because it usually is in the first two weeks - I've been known to lose 7 pounds in my first week. And indeed after just the first two days, an informal weigh-in had me lower than this, so there's every chance for a wobble and to go 'Fuck it! All that work and I've lost two pounds!'
Perfectly natural reaction, that, if you're Disappearing.
On the other hand, let's see what's really what.
Weight loss is always something of a fluctuating card-trick if you take snapshots of it, as these weigh-ins are. For instance, before going to bed last night, I weighed in at 19st 11, nearly five pounds heavier than this morning. Much peeing in the night is all there is to say about that.
The point of which is that you're always taking a snapshot of digestive transit, and if you're dealing with weightloss on a weekly basis, it actually becomes a factor. In the immortal words of comedian Peter Kay, 'I went to one of them weight loss classes, and they were cheering this woman cos she'd lost a pound. I said "A pound? What's a pound? I shit a pound!"'
Five pounds of liquid from night to morning. Get the picture?
So, there are things to say. Sure, the weightloss itself might be less than in previous attempts, but it's still two pounds in a week, meaning to reach the point of Peak Disappearing from my first time round, I now have to lost five stone (70 pounds). At two pounds a week, that's just 35 weeks. A smidgen under nine months - and the first time I did it, it took a year, cos I was 14 pounds heavier when I started. So - positivity there.
In addition, I've had a week of no chocolate, no oversugary foods, limited carbs etc. That's got to help me, because I'm diabetic, and running a system like mine on a high-sugar diet simply can't be good for it.
In addition again, I've spent two hours most days walking by the coast of one of my favourite bits of water in the world. Noooo bad there, apart from something of a deadline crunch which might just possibly have benefitted from those twelve or so hours of work.
In further addition, those walking hours have been filled with some cracking audio titles, which has allowed me to get up to speed with a few, tick a few off my To-Listen list, and very soon might even allow me to make progress on some actual audioBOOKing, with which I'm determined to do better in 2018 than I was in 2017.
And perhaps most importantly, in terms of a general take-away that might be useful to anyone else, I've begun to redress the balance of control in my life. Control's a weird thing - I tend to approach it in a digital fashion. All or nothing. Health, money, work, working environment. All the rest is still chaos-adjacent, but getting control over my eating and exercise regime makes me feel like I'm at least an active factor in the equation, rather than just a product to which things happen with or without my say-so. That means plans are being made, things being set in motion and suchlike, simply by virtue of having re-embarked on a Disappearing kick, and having not, as yet, fallen off.
So there's all of this, plus the relatively concrete fact (in a useful defiance of my own first point) that I'm two pounds lighter than I was this time last week. All of which marks progress, and gives me a spring in my step as I hurry out the door on today's walk. Onward to week 2, and hopefully another two pounds - at that rate, a month from now, I'll see an 18 in the 'Stones' column, which will be a marker of genuine significant loss.
To the walking boots!
Tuesday, 30 January 2018
Monday, 29 January 2018
The Hunger Games
Hello again - apologies, rather fell out of the blogosphere over the weekend.
Everything seems to feel different on the weekend, even though technically, working for myself, there's little to really mark one day out from another, or one block of two days out from any other.
And to be fair, there was little that was actually different about the weekend - walked every day, minimum carb, etc.
I suppose the only thing that really felt different was hunger.
So far, since Tuesday, I haven't really felt hunger per se. I've had automatic proddings to say 'Ooh, you could eat now,' or 'Ooh, you should eat now, but nothing that would really class as hunger until this weekend. And only then at night - eating a main meal relatively early in the evening has left me with urges to eat something later. Naturally - or at least naturally for me - those thoughts have turned to sweetness and carbohydrate. The idea of toast and jam, or a big bowl of cereal, played over my brain on each of the two nights of the weekend, round about 9.30-10pm.
This wasn't real hunger of course, just a sharper kind of whiny craving. Waah, I'm doing all this good stuff, reward me! It's absurd, and it's the pampered cry of the overfed, overindulged inner child who shoves every available thing down my throat, just to quell that odd sort of panic that rises at anything less than feeling entirely full.
It's funny, really - hunger seems to be a primal fear in the west. If you get anywhere close to it, anywher less than replete, there are triggers: eat more, eat heavy, eat sweet. Store up anything inside that keeps that absurd-in-this-situation fear at bay.
The thing with Disappearing is that the arrival of that kind of hunger-like craving, as opposed to want-like craving is a potential pitfall. It's like looking into the eyes of your toddler and telling them no. Turning your back on a whining puppy. That's how it feels to me - denying an innocent, who depends on me for their happiness, the very thing they require for that happiness.
Of course, the inner me is ludicrously overpampered, overindulged, to the extent that while it is quite happy to keep munching, keep taking in all the foods it likes and loves, the things that make it happy, the outer me is suffering, staggering under the weight of the wide-eyed inner toddler.
So - sternness has to be the order of the day if you want to Disappear. The inner you will whine. It will cry. It will argue like every righteous wronged child in the world that it's not FAIR.
At which point, you have to put it on the inner naughty step - drink water, go to bed if that's an option, do something else entirely if not. distraction, diversion, every trick you have at your disposal is needed to parent the little sod and not give in to its whining.
So far, so good - didn't cave this weekend. Things will of course get much, much harder than this.
Tomorrow, we weigh in. I genuinely have very little idea of how the first week has gone. I'm only really looking for the 2 pound loss that's supposed to be healthy, even though usually, you get a bump in the first two weeks as you lose water-weight before your system really kicks in and realises you're serious.
Now then - to the walking path!
Everything seems to feel different on the weekend, even though technically, working for myself, there's little to really mark one day out from another, or one block of two days out from any other.
And to be fair, there was little that was actually different about the weekend - walked every day, minimum carb, etc.
I suppose the only thing that really felt different was hunger.
So far, since Tuesday, I haven't really felt hunger per se. I've had automatic proddings to say 'Ooh, you could eat now,' or 'Ooh, you should eat now, but nothing that would really class as hunger until this weekend. And only then at night - eating a main meal relatively early in the evening has left me with urges to eat something later. Naturally - or at least naturally for me - those thoughts have turned to sweetness and carbohydrate. The idea of toast and jam, or a big bowl of cereal, played over my brain on each of the two nights of the weekend, round about 9.30-10pm.
This wasn't real hunger of course, just a sharper kind of whiny craving. Waah, I'm doing all this good stuff, reward me! It's absurd, and it's the pampered cry of the overfed, overindulged inner child who shoves every available thing down my throat, just to quell that odd sort of panic that rises at anything less than feeling entirely full.
It's funny, really - hunger seems to be a primal fear in the west. If you get anywhere close to it, anywher less than replete, there are triggers: eat more, eat heavy, eat sweet. Store up anything inside that keeps that absurd-in-this-situation fear at bay.
The thing with Disappearing is that the arrival of that kind of hunger-like craving, as opposed to want-like craving is a potential pitfall. It's like looking into the eyes of your toddler and telling them no. Turning your back on a whining puppy. That's how it feels to me - denying an innocent, who depends on me for their happiness, the very thing they require for that happiness.
Of course, the inner me is ludicrously overpampered, overindulged, to the extent that while it is quite happy to keep munching, keep taking in all the foods it likes and loves, the things that make it happy, the outer me is suffering, staggering under the weight of the wide-eyed inner toddler.
So - sternness has to be the order of the day if you want to Disappear. The inner you will whine. It will cry. It will argue like every righteous wronged child in the world that it's not FAIR.
At which point, you have to put it on the inner naughty step - drink water, go to bed if that's an option, do something else entirely if not. distraction, diversion, every trick you have at your disposal is needed to parent the little sod and not give in to its whining.
So far, so good - didn't cave this weekend. Things will of course get much, much harder than this.
Tomorrow, we weigh in. I genuinely have very little idea of how the first week has gone. I'm only really looking for the 2 pound loss that's supposed to be healthy, even though usually, you get a bump in the first two weeks as you lose water-weight before your system really kicks in and realises you're serious.
Now then - to the walking path!
Friday, 26 January 2018
The Trouble With Tesco Express
Disappearing is, for the most part, the quest to not go mad while you change your life and expectations utterly.
It's odd that when I began this blog, I lived in London, where anything was available for a price. then I moved to Merthyr, where we had a big, two-storey 24-hour Tesco just up the road from us.
We're not in Merthyr any more.
We're sure as shit not in London.
Make no mistake about it, while I loved London, and was bound to Merthyr by ties of contemptuous familiarity, as well as family and a scattering of good friends, it's a good thing that we're not in either of them any more. This is where we want to be, and, for instance, after walking along the coastline for two hours today, I spent a good half-hour simply looking out at the sea and the sky, and that's worth enormous sackfuls of dosh and lifetime to me. I love it here in Saundersfoot town, with its five streets and its harbour wall, its beach and its absolute invasion of dogs.
But, as has been a thread going through this week, in terms of buying for a Disappearing diet, it's interestingly challenging.
We have a Tesco Express and a Spar in the town centre, as far as picking up groceries is concerned.
And here's the thing about a Tesco Express when you're Disappearing.
There's virtually buggerall in it that you're allowed to see. Or rather, buggerall that you're allowed to eat. Lots of fun stuff - pies, pasties, M&M milkshakes, a doughnut aisle, a confectionery aisle, a frozen section full of pizzas and a magazine rack, and that's more or less your lot.
'I'm at a bit of a loss as to what to do for dinner,' d texted as I was sitting there, looking out to sea. 'Maybe get some new potatoes, and go on - treat yourself to some of the GOOD tomatoes.' She meant the branded, Italian tinned tomatoes, all of 50p per tin. So I did - but then, I started roaming the aisles like a distrubed person, looking for what else I could possibly take home for dinner.
Cup-A-Soups and a packet of pens. That's what I brought home.
Not just any old packet of pens, mind you, a £7.50 packet of pens, for which I have neither a burning need in my life, nor the funds to go lavishly splashing about.
I think if I'd stayed in there two more minutes, I'd have ended up buying some Lottery instants and sucking off the silver, just out of sheer desperation.
Needless to say though, d did...ridiculous wonders with what was in her store cupboard.
I ended up with a dinner of gloriously succulent 'Firecracker Chicken' - chicken tenders in a lemon and pepper sauce that were like a joyful savoury lollipop of pure pleasure. There were sprouts, oh god yes there were - one does not go on an epic greenery quest and then neglect one's sprouts. And there was a dish of stewed tomatoes of such bite and flavour and complexity that the recipe has more ingredients in it than seems entirely feasible - but hot damn, people! I should perhaps have mentioned this before we started - I do have one enooooormous advantage over each and every one of you when it comes to Disappearing, and that is d. The palate she has, the instinctive and the learned knowledge of flavour profiles, (as well of course as the emotional support and the humour and the ability to nod at me when I've gone quite clearly round the bend) means she can make cardboard taste damn good if she needs to. Tonight, I dined like a king, and flicked repetitive V-signs at the aisles of our Tesco Express, lovely and useful as it is, for I have d, and right now, she's what's saving me from a chewy mouthful of expensive pens.
It's odd that when I began this blog, I lived in London, where anything was available for a price. then I moved to Merthyr, where we had a big, two-storey 24-hour Tesco just up the road from us.
We're not in Merthyr any more.
We're sure as shit not in London.
Make no mistake about it, while I loved London, and was bound to Merthyr by ties of contemptuous familiarity, as well as family and a scattering of good friends, it's a good thing that we're not in either of them any more. This is where we want to be, and, for instance, after walking along the coastline for two hours today, I spent a good half-hour simply looking out at the sea and the sky, and that's worth enormous sackfuls of dosh and lifetime to me. I love it here in Saundersfoot town, with its five streets and its harbour wall, its beach and its absolute invasion of dogs.
But, as has been a thread going through this week, in terms of buying for a Disappearing diet, it's interestingly challenging.
We have a Tesco Express and a Spar in the town centre, as far as picking up groceries is concerned.
And here's the thing about a Tesco Express when you're Disappearing.
There's virtually buggerall in it that you're allowed to see. Or rather, buggerall that you're allowed to eat. Lots of fun stuff - pies, pasties, M&M milkshakes, a doughnut aisle, a confectionery aisle, a frozen section full of pizzas and a magazine rack, and that's more or less your lot.
'I'm at a bit of a loss as to what to do for dinner,' d texted as I was sitting there, looking out to sea. 'Maybe get some new potatoes, and go on - treat yourself to some of the GOOD tomatoes.' She meant the branded, Italian tinned tomatoes, all of 50p per tin. So I did - but then, I started roaming the aisles like a distrubed person, looking for what else I could possibly take home for dinner.
Cup-A-Soups and a packet of pens. That's what I brought home.
Not just any old packet of pens, mind you, a £7.50 packet of pens, for which I have neither a burning need in my life, nor the funds to go lavishly splashing about.
I think if I'd stayed in there two more minutes, I'd have ended up buying some Lottery instants and sucking off the silver, just out of sheer desperation.
Needless to say though, d did...ridiculous wonders with what was in her store cupboard.
I ended up with a dinner of gloriously succulent 'Firecracker Chicken' - chicken tenders in a lemon and pepper sauce that were like a joyful savoury lollipop of pure pleasure. There were sprouts, oh god yes there were - one does not go on an epic greenery quest and then neglect one's sprouts. And there was a dish of stewed tomatoes of such bite and flavour and complexity that the recipe has more ingredients in it than seems entirely feasible - but hot damn, people! I should perhaps have mentioned this before we started - I do have one enooooormous advantage over each and every one of you when it comes to Disappearing, and that is d. The palate she has, the instinctive and the learned knowledge of flavour profiles, (as well of course as the emotional support and the humour and the ability to nod at me when I've gone quite clearly round the bend) means she can make cardboard taste damn good if she needs to. Tonight, I dined like a king, and flicked repetitive V-signs at the aisles of our Tesco Express, lovely and useful as it is, for I have d, and right now, she's what's saving me from a chewy mouthful of expensive pens.
Thursday, 25 January 2018
The Quest For Sprouts
'So...whaddaya want to do today?'
'Well, I'm volunteering at the community centre at 2.30. Other than that...' There was a tiny sigh from d. 'We should go shopping.'
'Must we?'
'I can't keep giving you stewed tomatoes every night.'
'You really can. I love 'em.' (I'd eaten two bowlfuls last night, because, y'know, gluttony).
'I know you do. But you'll have rampant acid if I keep feeding you those.'
'Ach...'
All of this was in bed this morning, before either of us had dared peek a toe out from under the duvet.
The wind and driving rain battered against the windows.
'How about sprouts?' I bartered. 'There's always sprouts.'
'There isn't,' murmured d. 'I looked in Tesco yesterday, not a sprout to be had. That's why we'll have to go shopping.'
'Ah, but I tried the Spar,' I said, referring to a chain corner store which also now functions as the local post office. 'They have frozen button sprouts there.'
The wind howled, as if on cue.
'So...we don't have to get dressed and go out there? Not yet, anyway?'
'Nope,' I said. 'I'll go walking later. And as Spar is my witness, we'll never go sproutless again.'
'Awesome,' said d, snuggling under the duvet for another couple of minutes.
So - hoorah for flavour diversity while Disappearing - went walking (it had mellowed significantly by then, though for some reason not unconnected with walking across beaches and streams, I still put me wellies on. The beach clearly counts as a short cut, cos I only managed 7719 steps todday), got sprouts, brought sprouts home, laid them gently in the freezer. We were all out of velvet cushions, sadly, but it was that sort of a moment.
I admit it's not much of a heroic quest, but be honest, if I told you about the dragon waiting to buy postal orders and feast upon the virgins of the village, or the dwarvish slate miners protesting against the new speed restrictions on the road at Wiseman's Bridge, or the Hellmouth under the Lounge coffee bar...well, you'd only think I was making it up, wouldn't you?
'Well, I'm volunteering at the community centre at 2.30. Other than that...' There was a tiny sigh from d. 'We should go shopping.'
'Must we?'
'I can't keep giving you stewed tomatoes every night.'
'You really can. I love 'em.' (I'd eaten two bowlfuls last night, because, y'know, gluttony).
'I know you do. But you'll have rampant acid if I keep feeding you those.'
'Ach...'
All of this was in bed this morning, before either of us had dared peek a toe out from under the duvet.
The wind and driving rain battered against the windows.
'How about sprouts?' I bartered. 'There's always sprouts.'
'There isn't,' murmured d. 'I looked in Tesco yesterday, not a sprout to be had. That's why we'll have to go shopping.'
'Ah, but I tried the Spar,' I said, referring to a chain corner store which also now functions as the local post office. 'They have frozen button sprouts there.'
The wind howled, as if on cue.
'So...we don't have to get dressed and go out there? Not yet, anyway?'
'Nope,' I said. 'I'll go walking later. And as Spar is my witness, we'll never go sproutless again.'
'Awesome,' said d, snuggling under the duvet for another couple of minutes.
So - hoorah for flavour diversity while Disappearing - went walking (it had mellowed significantly by then, though for some reason not unconnected with walking across beaches and streams, I still put me wellies on. The beach clearly counts as a short cut, cos I only managed 7719 steps todday), got sprouts, brought sprouts home, laid them gently in the freezer. We were all out of velvet cushions, sadly, but it was that sort of a moment.
I admit it's not much of a heroic quest, but be honest, if I told you about the dragon waiting to buy postal orders and feast upon the virgins of the village, or the dwarvish slate miners protesting against the new speed restrictions on the road at Wiseman's Bridge, or the Hellmouth under the Lounge coffee bar...well, you'd only think I was making it up, wouldn't you?
Wednesday, 24 January 2018
The Rediscovery Of Legs
So - as promised, there's been action.
Not bullet from a gun, 'holy crap I'm going to die now' action, but action nevertheless.
In a nutshell, I have rediscovered my legs, and determined to put them to some use. Yesterday, I walked 8875 of my ideal 10,000 steps, while eschewing all the fun things in food life.
Well, I say that and it's monstrously unfair - actually, d (taking her inspiration from Tom Kerridge), did something remarkable with chicken and rice and tinned tomatoes, that saw me have a tasty baked chicken burger for lunch, and chicken, rice and stewed tomatoes for dinner. I know what you're thinking, but you're wrong. Give me a bowl of stewed tomatoes and I'm a happy little camper. Similarly a bowl of boiled Brussel sprouts. If there's a tiny tump of boiled rice with it too, so much the better - these are the meals of my childhood, when my grandmother was poor enough to give us just carb and Something To Make It Exciting.
So - happy Tony yesterday, despite, when I came back from my walk, having to sit for about fifteen minutes in the town centre and cough up technically more lung that I'm probably supposed to own.
Today, due to an uphill detour to visit the local doctors and pick up registration forms, I tapped out at over 9000 steps, and have so far had a couple of cold Starbucks drinks - about 160 calories a shot, since you ask. Yes, technically they're caffeinated, and so I'll have to knock them on the head sooner or later, but for now, there's enough of a sensation of richness about them to get me started in the morning without especially craving what has the potential to be my downfall meal of the day, which is breakfast.
There are more stewed tomatoes in my immediate short-term future, along with potatoes tonight. The compulsion to eat a late, heavy supper, and to demand something sweet, is still there after a meal like that, but the compulsion can pretty much do one. I know, technically it's been two days, big whoop, but currently, I'm focussed forward, not letting the fatty lifestyle tempt me.
The rediscovery of legs has also undergone its first mild challenge - by the time I'd gone a few hundred yards today, the drizzle started, and my immediate reaction was positively catlike. 'Blech. Wet,' I muttered to myself, taking a look back at the flat, with its warmth, and dryness and work to be done.
'Fuck it. It's drizzle. Onward!' I said, and marched on, to the accompaniment of an audio drama.
In other news, my laptop appears to be dead and currently is refusing to rouse itself to any stimulus.
So...that's annoying.
But from a purely Disappearing standpoint - a pretty good day.
Not bullet from a gun, 'holy crap I'm going to die now' action, but action nevertheless.
In a nutshell, I have rediscovered my legs, and determined to put them to some use. Yesterday, I walked 8875 of my ideal 10,000 steps, while eschewing all the fun things in food life.
Well, I say that and it's monstrously unfair - actually, d (taking her inspiration from Tom Kerridge), did something remarkable with chicken and rice and tinned tomatoes, that saw me have a tasty baked chicken burger for lunch, and chicken, rice and stewed tomatoes for dinner. I know what you're thinking, but you're wrong. Give me a bowl of stewed tomatoes and I'm a happy little camper. Similarly a bowl of boiled Brussel sprouts. If there's a tiny tump of boiled rice with it too, so much the better - these are the meals of my childhood, when my grandmother was poor enough to give us just carb and Something To Make It Exciting.
So - happy Tony yesterday, despite, when I came back from my walk, having to sit for about fifteen minutes in the town centre and cough up technically more lung that I'm probably supposed to own.
Today, due to an uphill detour to visit the local doctors and pick up registration forms, I tapped out at over 9000 steps, and have so far had a couple of cold Starbucks drinks - about 160 calories a shot, since you ask. Yes, technically they're caffeinated, and so I'll have to knock them on the head sooner or later, but for now, there's enough of a sensation of richness about them to get me started in the morning without especially craving what has the potential to be my downfall meal of the day, which is breakfast.
There are more stewed tomatoes in my immediate short-term future, along with potatoes tonight. The compulsion to eat a late, heavy supper, and to demand something sweet, is still there after a meal like that, but the compulsion can pretty much do one. I know, technically it's been two days, big whoop, but currently, I'm focussed forward, not letting the fatty lifestyle tempt me.
The rediscovery of legs has also undergone its first mild challenge - by the time I'd gone a few hundred yards today, the drizzle started, and my immediate reaction was positively catlike. 'Blech. Wet,' I muttered to myself, taking a look back at the flat, with its warmth, and dryness and work to be done.
'Fuck it. It's drizzle. Onward!' I said, and marched on, to the accompaniment of an audio drama.
In other news, my laptop appears to be dead and currently is refusing to rouse itself to any stimulus.
So...that's annoying.
But from a purely Disappearing standpoint - a pretty good day.
Tuesday, 23 January 2018
Wrong-Footing The Toe of Destiny
Well, that was a surprise.
As usual, O followers of the Dissappearing Witterer, the whole shebang begins with a taking-stock. That means a weigh-in, so we have a mark at which to aim.
When I began again before Christmas, I was over 20 stone, and close to 20 stone 7.25 - the weight I was when I began the original Disappearing, some seven years ago.
As foreshadowed yesterday, have recently been eating like I don't know where my next meal is coming from, and doing precisely buggerall by way of exercise.
Which rather takes the piss, as today's relaunch weigh-in weight is: 19st 8.25
This makes no sense whatever, but is enough to give me a spring in my step as I set out yet, yet, yet a-freakin'gain.
There's a danger, when you start out with good news (and yes, absurd as it may sound, starting out at just over 236 pounds is good news), that you immediate relax your resolve, thinking 'Ach, things are nowhere near as bad as I thought they were, where's me pizza?'
This wrong-footing of the Toe of Destiny which was previously booting you up the ass is the way to get precisely nothing done, and continue happy and comfortable and full of carbohydrate - at least in the short term.
At which point, you should feel entirely at liberty to punch yourself in the head and use whatever is available to you to motivate yourself.
'Oi, y'know that noise you make when you get out of a chair?'
'Yeah...'
'ACK, wrong answer, put the pizza down, get your shoes on and get walking.'
Yes, absolutely, I'm suggesting you bamboozle yourself. If it helps, yourself is trying to bamboozle you all the time - 'One more slice, where's the harm?' 'No-one ever dropped dead of eating this particular cupcake.' 'It looks a bit overcast out there...'
Fat is commmmfortable. Part of your brain - or at least part of mine - wants to stay that way, because it's like slobbing around in your PJs all day, it feels freakin' gooooood. But sometimes, you've got to go out. Taking an occasional day in your PJS - fab. Spending your whole LIFE in your PJs? Really not so good.
So lie, cheat, bamboozle the bejesus out of your brain if you have to. But when you get good news, treat it like a door-to-door double glazing salesman. Be wary. Nod, understand, but don't necessarily let it coax you into anything that doesn't fit in with your pre-existing plans.
Let not the Toe of Destiny go awry, for it is thine ass for which it is intended.
Now - time to register with a doctor...
As usual, O followers of the Dissappearing Witterer, the whole shebang begins with a taking-stock. That means a weigh-in, so we have a mark at which to aim.
When I began again before Christmas, I was over 20 stone, and close to 20 stone 7.25 - the weight I was when I began the original Disappearing, some seven years ago.
As foreshadowed yesterday, have recently been eating like I don't know where my next meal is coming from, and doing precisely buggerall by way of exercise.
Which rather takes the piss, as today's relaunch weigh-in weight is: 19st 8.25
This makes no sense whatever, but is enough to give me a spring in my step as I set out yet, yet, yet a-freakin'gain.
There's a danger, when you start out with good news (and yes, absurd as it may sound, starting out at just over 236 pounds is good news), that you immediate relax your resolve, thinking 'Ach, things are nowhere near as bad as I thought they were, where's me pizza?'
This wrong-footing of the Toe of Destiny which was previously booting you up the ass is the way to get precisely nothing done, and continue happy and comfortable and full of carbohydrate - at least in the short term.
At which point, you should feel entirely at liberty to punch yourself in the head and use whatever is available to you to motivate yourself.
'Oi, y'know that noise you make when you get out of a chair?'
'Yeah...'
'ACK, wrong answer, put the pizza down, get your shoes on and get walking.'
Yes, absolutely, I'm suggesting you bamboozle yourself. If it helps, yourself is trying to bamboozle you all the time - 'One more slice, where's the harm?' 'No-one ever dropped dead of eating this particular cupcake.' 'It looks a bit overcast out there...'
Fat is commmmfortable. Part of your brain - or at least part of mine - wants to stay that way, because it's like slobbing around in your PJs all day, it feels freakin' gooooood. But sometimes, you've got to go out. Taking an occasional day in your PJS - fab. Spending your whole LIFE in your PJs? Really not so good.
So lie, cheat, bamboozle the bejesus out of your brain if you have to. But when you get good news, treat it like a door-to-door double glazing salesman. Be wary. Nod, understand, but don't necessarily let it coax you into anything that doesn't fit in with your pre-existing plans.
Let not the Toe of Destiny go awry, for it is thine ass for which it is intended.
Now - time to register with a doctor...
Monday, 22 January 2018
The Month-Long Christmas and the Toe of Destiny
Well, that didn't go according to plan, now did it, boys and girls?
Went to Merthyr to spend Christmas with my mother, and had hardly got through the door before I started cramming the Quality Street down my neck.
Have been eating like a self-destructive maniac, doing precisely buggerall in terms of exercise, being somewhat creatively interpretative with my medication and essentially evolving into Jabba the Hutt with a keyboard.
I have watched accomplioshed chef Tom Kerridge, himself a big lad, encouraging people to lose weight after his own battle with suicidal habits, during which he lost a whacking 12 stone - which would have been fine, had I not watched him with a ten-inch cheesy pizza halfway to my gob.
I've known this was coming for a while, and if you'd asked me three hours ago, I'd have told you that I've never needed to do this more, and never felt like doing it less.
Since then, I've rather had the toe of destiny shoved up my ass in a forceful and purposeful manner, so right now, I'm writing this while energised and powerful and ready to take on the world or burn it down.
This is of course not an energy that lasts for the accomplishment of marathons. I know this. This is neither my, nor I daresay your first ride on this Disappearing pony. But the toe of destiny is a good motivator to get one started on projects that mellow and develop a more productive rather than destructive rhythm over time. So this is where you find me. Tomorrow, Disappearing-shopping - fruit, veg, protein etc. There will be grabbing of sticks and hiking, at least to Wiseman's Bridge and back, while under the influence of music or drama pouring through my iPod and turning my thighs, I have no doubt, to mush. There will be, or at least should be, registration with a Saundersfoot-based GP, so that I can return to taking my meds without fear of running out before that process is completed. There will be, above all, ACTION.
In the name of the Toe of Destiny, there will be action!
Tomorrow.
Honest.
Went to Merthyr to spend Christmas with my mother, and had hardly got through the door before I started cramming the Quality Street down my neck.
Have been eating like a self-destructive maniac, doing precisely buggerall in terms of exercise, being somewhat creatively interpretative with my medication and essentially evolving into Jabba the Hutt with a keyboard.
I have watched accomplioshed chef Tom Kerridge, himself a big lad, encouraging people to lose weight after his own battle with suicidal habits, during which he lost a whacking 12 stone - which would have been fine, had I not watched him with a ten-inch cheesy pizza halfway to my gob.
I've known this was coming for a while, and if you'd asked me three hours ago, I'd have told you that I've never needed to do this more, and never felt like doing it less.
Since then, I've rather had the toe of destiny shoved up my ass in a forceful and purposeful manner, so right now, I'm writing this while energised and powerful and ready to take on the world or burn it down.
This is of course not an energy that lasts for the accomplishment of marathons. I know this. This is neither my, nor I daresay your first ride on this Disappearing pony. But the toe of destiny is a good motivator to get one started on projects that mellow and develop a more productive rather than destructive rhythm over time. So this is where you find me. Tomorrow, Disappearing-shopping - fruit, veg, protein etc. There will be grabbing of sticks and hiking, at least to Wiseman's Bridge and back, while under the influence of music or drama pouring through my iPod and turning my thighs, I have no doubt, to mush. There will be, or at least should be, registration with a Saundersfoot-based GP, so that I can return to taking my meds without fear of running out before that process is completed. There will be, above all, ACTION.
In the name of the Toe of Destiny, there will be action!
Tomorrow.
Honest.
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