"It's five o'clock, honest, I saw it written there plain as day."
d looked at me, and at the scene in front of her.
Then she looked at me again, rather more squintily.
"A...ha.." she said.
The scene in front of her was mainly kids jumping in the pool and twimming, or jumping in the pool and trying to swim, or, mainly, just jumping in the pool and sinking like pink-suited stones, and spluttering helplessly till helped.
This, it was clear to even the meanest of intelligences - by which I mean everyone's but mine - was not a GP Referral aquacise class.
I had rushed and bustled us out of the house to make sure we got there by five, because the class started at five.
I think, to be honest, the jig was up when new people started arriving, perfectly dry kids in hand, and leaving them in the instructor's care.
"Go and ask the lifeguard," said d. "I dare ya."
I did.
"Well, that'll be me not able to read English any more," I said, after miming her to come and meet me halfway round the pool. "That...could be tricky, given what I do for a living..."
"Oh I don't know..." said d with a grin.
Now of course, I could have done some lengths, leaving d in the jacuzzi-pool, but frankly - and I can't stress how important this is - fuck that for a game of soldiers! I'd biked away 300 calories before breakfast, then had the breakfast that those calories comprised of. I'd had a lunch of leftover curry and rice, then walked five miles or so in an hour and a half in the company of Ricky The Git, and Christine, a nice woman who had originally registered us on the GP Referral Programme. It had been just me and them, because they (fairly obviously, if you think about it) don't do the pathways walk unless someone turns up to do it with them, and I was the only one who did.
Now we were about to aquacise our asses off, and then go straight into the gym. I figured I deserved a little bit of jacuzzi-time too!
There's an enormous aqua slide at our pool. It's never been operational while we've been there before, but tonight they turned it on.
"Oh I wanna have a go!" said d. "Come with me?"
"Sure," I said...then, as we approached the steps leading up to it, she added.
"Ohhh, I wanna see you come down. can I see you come down?"
"Sure," I said, doing the Manly Thing.
I slalomed down the thing, smashing myself into a slide-pool at the end and getting water up my nose.
"That was great!" said d.
"Right, now up you go," I said.
"What am I, fuckin' nuts?" said d.
We both slouched off to the jacuzzi, some of us a little more slouchy than others.
The Aquacise was...frankly...what exercise must be like in Hell. I've discovered Ricky's not such a git - it's just there's a face...a face people pull when they are dry and warm and on the side of the pool, watching a bunch of fat fucks and old fucks try and bend themselves repeatedly into unlikely positions. It's the Aquacise Smirk, and this evening, we took our opportunity to loathe and despise Christine for it. Nothing personal.
Then we stumbled, barely aware of our surroundings, up to the gym. We wouldn't have even done this, I'm sure, if we hadn't pre-paid for it on the way in. There was biking and pulling and a new machine from Hell's private stockpile that stetches your leg muscles almost to the point of twanging...and then there was freedom and freezing and discovering that Nandos was just there. Nandos meant protein, and protein was goooooood. And now we're home, altogether more damaged than one should be on a Wednesday, contemplating hot water bottles and snoring with a degree of delight that only those who's worked their asses off can understand.
Blood was 5.5 this morning by the way (after recalibrating. 5.0 originally), so presumably, the half-meds life is going OK. So far (all of three days in, clearly...)
Ni'night blogosphere, I'm sooo out of here...
Wednesday, 8 February 2012
Tuesday, 7 February 2012
The Final Three....and a bit
What's that line again? Philosophical in defeat, magnanimous in victory, or somesuch thing?
Yyyyyeah, that really doesn't sound like me. Weigh-in results today:
I did it three times, just to make sure it wasn't just the Nazi Scales having a laugh. But apparently, the Nazi Scales don't laugh.
Ever.
So that's officially five stone, and then some. Five stone, two and a quarter, if ya wanna be picky.
What that means is that technically, I've got less than four stone left to lose. Three stone, 11 and three quarters, picky fucks.
I've come across this phenomenon before, but I have to tell you, that feels like a Hell of a lot less than four stone. Clearly, it isn't, it's a couple of pounds, but it's the psychological effect of thinking in threes, rather than fours, and that's huge.
Now, just for the sake of full disclosure I should say - the real truth probably isn't as good as this result makes it look. Mondays now, with their UberCommute, tend to be ultra-light days, calorie-wise, and today's result is probably an outlier, much in the way I think the first time I recorded 15 stone 8 was, and then the following week, I found myself back up in the 15 stone 12 area. I've done a solid couple of daily unofficial weigh-ins this week that record me as 15 stone 7, so I think it's fair to say I've officially gone through the 5 stone barrier, but I wouldn't be at all surprised, next Tuesday, to find myself higher up despite trying to have a good week.
But for now, while there's news to be obnoxious about, excuse me while I do some football-chanting:
"Fiiiiiiiiiiiiive twoandabit, Fiiiive twoandabit,
Fiiiiiiiiiiiiive twoandabit, Fiiiiiive twoandabit..."
Magnanimous in victory, my Disappearing arse!
Yyyyyeah, that really doesn't sound like me. Weigh-in results today:
15 stone 4.75!
I did it three times, just to make sure it wasn't just the Nazi Scales having a laugh. But apparently, the Nazi Scales don't laugh.
Ever.
So that's officially five stone, and then some. Five stone, two and a quarter, if ya wanna be picky.
What that means is that technically, I've got less than four stone left to lose. Three stone, 11 and three quarters, picky fucks.
I've come across this phenomenon before, but I have to tell you, that feels like a Hell of a lot less than four stone. Clearly, it isn't, it's a couple of pounds, but it's the psychological effect of thinking in threes, rather than fours, and that's huge.
Now, just for the sake of full disclosure I should say - the real truth probably isn't as good as this result makes it look. Mondays now, with their UberCommute, tend to be ultra-light days, calorie-wise, and today's result is probably an outlier, much in the way I think the first time I recorded 15 stone 8 was, and then the following week, I found myself back up in the 15 stone 12 area. I've done a solid couple of daily unofficial weigh-ins this week that record me as 15 stone 7, so I think it's fair to say I've officially gone through the 5 stone barrier, but I wouldn't be at all surprised, next Tuesday, to find myself higher up despite trying to have a good week.
But for now, while there's news to be obnoxious about, excuse me while I do some football-chanting:
"Fiiiiiiiiiiiiive twoandabit, Fiiiive twoandabit,
Fiiiiiiiiiiiiive twoandabit, Fiiiiiive twoandabit..."
Magnanimous in victory, my Disappearing arse!
Monday, 6 February 2012
Good Call
No blood result today - well, not exactly anyway. Some might say the whole day has revolved around a blood result, but more of that in a minute. Basically, was out the door this morning before the birds were awake, so no real time to bleed.
The UberCommute was fine, although I had the same grumpy-assed driver as a few weeks ago, when he dropped us all unceremoniously at Heathrow. Today, I can only presume he must have got some last night, as he drove into London sweet as a nut, dropping me in Hammersmith. Just before we arrived though, I got a call.
It was my doctor's surgery. I swallowed.
"Hello," said, all trepidation and whispering - the grumpy sod had told us to keep our mobile conversations short and quiet if they happened at all, so as not to annoy him.
"Hello Anthony," said a vaguely familiar voice. It was the Diabetic Nurse d and I had been to see last week. "About your results, it is," she said, in that perverse Yoda-style delivery peculiar to the Valleys.
"Oh yes?" I asked, steeling myself. Can't be good when your nurse rings you to talk about your results...surely?
"Lovely, they were," she said. "Your long-term diabetic control is really excellent. Wondered if you'd like to stop taking one of your medications all together..."
What? Are you freakin' nuts? OF COURSE I'd like to do that!
So, as of today, I've eliminated one of my diabetic meds - the same one I've been gradually reducing over time - from four pills a day when this began to now...none. Zero. To anyone who knows what's what, I am now a Gliclazide-free body. So - mini happy dances were done on the bus coming into Hammersmith.
Of course, these things are always conditional - gotta go back for another long-term diabetic control blood test in a couple of months, to see whether my system can, as yet, actually cope with none of this particular medication, and if it can't of course, I'll go back on it. But hey - that'll be the headline on that day. Today's headline - half of what I really wanted to achieve with this Disappearing programme has been accomplished - I'm on only one diabetic medication, instead of two. Next step is to prove I can do without it, and then, as we keep on reducing the weight, to attack my dependence on the other of the other medication I take. big milestone though, this - this Disappearing lark was never really about looking thin. It was about not dying quite yet, and it was about the tantalising prospect dangled before me by my doctor back in Stratford - that if I got down to something like 11 stone, I could actually cure myself of my diabetes. Who knows? This might be a short-lived little happy dance, but today who-ah, I rule all, mini-wave in celebration of kicking one medication to the curb!
Tomorrow of course it's weigh-in day. I'm hopeful and optimistic, and will try my very best not to be pathetic and whingy if I don't get the result I'm looking for. And then it's back to the work-from-home routine - Gym taster at lunchtime. Some time this week, I need to buy new Favourite Goggles and get back to the upper-body-building funfest of early morning swimming...Ah, the joy of routine. Still - there's joy today in eliminating one little chunk of a routine that's been in place for a good few years now. Stick with me folks, this next month could be interesting...
The UberCommute was fine, although I had the same grumpy-assed driver as a few weeks ago, when he dropped us all unceremoniously at Heathrow. Today, I can only presume he must have got some last night, as he drove into London sweet as a nut, dropping me in Hammersmith. Just before we arrived though, I got a call.
It was my doctor's surgery. I swallowed.
"Hello," said, all trepidation and whispering - the grumpy sod had told us to keep our mobile conversations short and quiet if they happened at all, so as not to annoy him.
"Hello Anthony," said a vaguely familiar voice. It was the Diabetic Nurse d and I had been to see last week. "About your results, it is," she said, in that perverse Yoda-style delivery peculiar to the Valleys.
"Oh yes?" I asked, steeling myself. Can't be good when your nurse rings you to talk about your results...surely?
"Lovely, they were," she said. "Your long-term diabetic control is really excellent. Wondered if you'd like to stop taking one of your medications all together..."
What? Are you freakin' nuts? OF COURSE I'd like to do that!
So, as of today, I've eliminated one of my diabetic meds - the same one I've been gradually reducing over time - from four pills a day when this began to now...none. Zero. To anyone who knows what's what, I am now a Gliclazide-free body. So - mini happy dances were done on the bus coming into Hammersmith.
Of course, these things are always conditional - gotta go back for another long-term diabetic control blood test in a couple of months, to see whether my system can, as yet, actually cope with none of this particular medication, and if it can't of course, I'll go back on it. But hey - that'll be the headline on that day. Today's headline - half of what I really wanted to achieve with this Disappearing programme has been accomplished - I'm on only one diabetic medication, instead of two. Next step is to prove I can do without it, and then, as we keep on reducing the weight, to attack my dependence on the other of the other medication I take. big milestone though, this - this Disappearing lark was never really about looking thin. It was about not dying quite yet, and it was about the tantalising prospect dangled before me by my doctor back in Stratford - that if I got down to something like 11 stone, I could actually cure myself of my diabetes. Who knows? This might be a short-lived little happy dance, but today who-ah, I rule all, mini-wave in celebration of kicking one medication to the curb!
Tomorrow of course it's weigh-in day. I'm hopeful and optimistic, and will try my very best not to be pathetic and whingy if I don't get the result I'm looking for. And then it's back to the work-from-home routine - Gym taster at lunchtime. Some time this week, I need to buy new Favourite Goggles and get back to the upper-body-building funfest of early morning swimming...Ah, the joy of routine. Still - there's joy today in eliminating one little chunk of a routine that's been in place for a good few years now. Stick with me folks, this next month could be interesting...
Sunday, 5 February 2012
In Apology For Lunch, And In Praise of Dinner
Blood yesterday was 6.0 by the way. Didn't remember to take my blood this morning, because I took a glorious herbal sleeping pill last night, woke up at 10.30 this morning, and we went for brunch at the Harvester.
In an attempt not to be boring, and not to have the same thing as usual, I chose some lamb...thing. All the while, I was counting up the calories - 350 for the meat, about 110 for the potatoes, roughly 110 for a dry bread roll, 150 for a simple soup, 150 for a smoothie and so on. Worked out that the meal in total would suck up about a thousand calories of whatever my daily allotment should be. Don't actually know what that allotment is, which makes the whole thing moderately meaningless, but I generally aim for 1600 calories or less...
Ah! Just done a little quick research. Average healthy calorific intake for a man is 2500. To lose a pound a week, they say you should reduce calorific intake by 500 calories a day - so presumably for a two pound loss, you should reduce by 1000 calories, which means my half-arsed pseudo maths is frankly not bad...
Anyhow, lunch would have sucked about a thousand calories out of my day...which would have been OK, if it had been good, but it wasn't. Somehow, that annoyed me - like I say, spending the calories is fine, so long as the experience is good, but when you've spent the calories and the experience was bad, you feel short-changed, in exactly the same way as you do if you spend cash on something that turns out to be disappointing.
Came home, moved the office around as I'd intended, and then took to the bike for an hour and ten. Managed to claw back 600 calories, pedalling as though I was apologising to the calorie-gods for the travesty that had been lunch. 600 is not, all in all, as many as I wanted to pedal, but will have to do on a Sunday night, ahead of an UberCommute.
Then d served dinner.
Phenomenal stuff, this dinner. Simple ingredients, treated with stunning respect to make something far more impresive than the sum of its parts. Brined pork, flavoured with cloves, black pepper and a pinch of chilli. Cooked apples. Brussels sprouts. And mashed potato, with sweet onions and an egg mixed in to lighten it.
Can't tell you how good that was - even I, Mr Wordsmith, can't do it justice in something as clunky as words. My wife has some serious skill. And eating it, I didn't count calories, didn't care what it cost. Whatever it cost, it was beautiful.
I'm still hoping for a positive result on Tuesday, but dinner tonight was a reality check - every now and then, you have to get in touch with what makes the experience of being alive different from the experience of just surviving from day to day. Top Tip for the day - Be married to a culinary genius, it really helps you reconnect.
In an attempt not to be boring, and not to have the same thing as usual, I chose some lamb...thing. All the while, I was counting up the calories - 350 for the meat, about 110 for the potatoes, roughly 110 for a dry bread roll, 150 for a simple soup, 150 for a smoothie and so on. Worked out that the meal in total would suck up about a thousand calories of whatever my daily allotment should be. Don't actually know what that allotment is, which makes the whole thing moderately meaningless, but I generally aim for 1600 calories or less...
Ah! Just done a little quick research. Average healthy calorific intake for a man is 2500. To lose a pound a week, they say you should reduce calorific intake by 500 calories a day - so presumably for a two pound loss, you should reduce by 1000 calories, which means my half-arsed pseudo maths is frankly not bad...
Anyhow, lunch would have sucked about a thousand calories out of my day...which would have been OK, if it had been good, but it wasn't. Somehow, that annoyed me - like I say, spending the calories is fine, so long as the experience is good, but when you've spent the calories and the experience was bad, you feel short-changed, in exactly the same way as you do if you spend cash on something that turns out to be disappointing.
Came home, moved the office around as I'd intended, and then took to the bike for an hour and ten. Managed to claw back 600 calories, pedalling as though I was apologising to the calorie-gods for the travesty that had been lunch. 600 is not, all in all, as many as I wanted to pedal, but will have to do on a Sunday night, ahead of an UberCommute.
Then d served dinner.
Phenomenal stuff, this dinner. Simple ingredients, treated with stunning respect to make something far more impresive than the sum of its parts. Brined pork, flavoured with cloves, black pepper and a pinch of chilli. Cooked apples. Brussels sprouts. And mashed potato, with sweet onions and an egg mixed in to lighten it.
Can't tell you how good that was - even I, Mr Wordsmith, can't do it justice in something as clunky as words. My wife has some serious skill. And eating it, I didn't count calories, didn't care what it cost. Whatever it cost, it was beautiful.
I'm still hoping for a positive result on Tuesday, but dinner tonight was a reality check - every now and then, you have to get in touch with what makes the experience of being alive different from the experience of just surviving from day to day. Top Tip for the day - Be married to a culinary genius, it really helps you reconnect.
Saturday, 4 February 2012
Going Commando In The Snow
"Your moobs have shrunk again dear," d observed, raising her knees almost resentfully.
"That's nice dear," I panted. "Waah!" I added, swaying a little sideways.
"Focus baby," said d, going a little red in the face and breathing out hard.
"Sorry, yeah," I said, concentrating on my moves.
"Annnnd pull yourselves to the shallow end!" called Ricky, the aquacise instructor. He's a cheerful soul, is Ricky. I frequently want to slap him. I most frequently want to slap him on Saturday morning, when aquacise takes place before anyone sensible is awake.
This morning, Ricky punished us with cold water, loud music and a cheerfulness only marginally dented by the fact that he'd drunk wine the night before. We swam, and star jumped, and beggared about getting exhausted and stretchy.
It started snowing while we were jazz-handsing.
"Brr," said d and I simultaneously as we got out into the cold again and buggered off home as quickly as we could.
When we got in, I gave in to the whispering voices and did an unofficial weigh-in. That was fun. Unofficial fun goddammit, but fun nevertheless. Then I went back out for gym tasting. With Ricky The Git.
Ahem...
Now, there's a little bit of magicianry you need to understand here. To go back to the gym, I wore my gym shorts in place of underwear, and covered them with sweatpants. To do the actual gym work, I got rid of the sweatpants, and then to come home, I got out of the then-sweaty shorts, and went commando in the sweatpants.
Did I mention the snow? To make sure I didn't end up with soggy pant-bottoms, I tucked the sweats into my socks. That meant I was then walking through the snow, commando, in sweatpants that were pulling away from their useful position with every step.
"Please, gods I don't believe in, don't fuck me over today," I muttered, yanking up the pants against the demands of gravity.
Oh yeah, did I mention the snow? d had asked me to pick up some milk when I came out of the gym, so I was headed for the store before home. Except....it had snowed. Which meant half the Valley was in the store before me, panic-buying like consumerism and groceries were going out of fashion. I met d at the store, and we ended up with two big heavy bagfuls of assorted stuff. Now of course, it's in the Gentleman's Code (and also, as it happens, in the Douchebag Who Wants To Get Laid's Code) that when there are big heavy bags of groceries to be caried, the technical penis-owner is the one who gets to carry them. So now I was waddling, Chaplin-like, with a bag in each hand, trying, essentially to hula my trousers with every step so the action of each step didn't yank them over my newishly revealed hips.
"What...the...Hell?" said d, watching me.
I explained.
"Oh for God's..." she chuckled. "C'mere..."
And there, in a Merthyr arcade, she yanked up my sweater, undid the knot holding my trousers together, and re-did me.
"How you doin'?" I tried.
"Focus, dear...Fuck me," muttered d.
"Alrighty," I agreed. "Here and now?"
"Not on a bet, dear," said d. "I meant Fuck me, it's cold..."
"Mmm," I said, not quite ready to let go of the idea. "They say things work better when they're cold..."
"You maybe," said d, knotting the string in my pants extra tight as if to permanently seal the deal. "Me...notsomuch! Besides, I have one word for you..."
"Yeah?"
"Shrinkage."
"Point taken," I said, picking up the bags again.
Didn't rearrange the office as I'd planned today - we learned fairly early that our now-usual Sunday car boot sale had been all sorts of cancelled tomorrow, probably for fear of freezing people to death in the unheated chapel hall that is the venue. So we have all of tomorrow to do stuff to the apartment, and no gym appointments to attend.
Of course, all of this nonsense was on the backdrop of Merthyr Snow. Normally, on the 4th of February, we're busy dealing with Western New York Snow. Proper, ass-kicking, seriously-you-people-need-to-take-the-hint-that-weather-hates-you Snow. Because, every previous year, tomorrow, February 5th, we've tried to be over there for the celebration of d's mom's birthday. I'm not at all sure how we'll mark the occasion tomorrow. Guess we'll just take the day as it comes. I'd be lying if I said I missed the Healthcare Centre where she lived for the last handful of her years, but Lori and Dom, American food stores, American diners....goddamnsonofabitch pizza subs...Ahhh...I have a relatively new overdraft facility...hmmm...
"That's nice dear," I panted. "Waah!" I added, swaying a little sideways.
"Focus baby," said d, going a little red in the face and breathing out hard.
"Sorry, yeah," I said, concentrating on my moves.
"Annnnd pull yourselves to the shallow end!" called Ricky, the aquacise instructor. He's a cheerful soul, is Ricky. I frequently want to slap him. I most frequently want to slap him on Saturday morning, when aquacise takes place before anyone sensible is awake.
This morning, Ricky punished us with cold water, loud music and a cheerfulness only marginally dented by the fact that he'd drunk wine the night before. We swam, and star jumped, and beggared about getting exhausted and stretchy.
It started snowing while we were jazz-handsing.
"Brr," said d and I simultaneously as we got out into the cold again and buggered off home as quickly as we could.
When we got in, I gave in to the whispering voices and did an unofficial weigh-in. That was fun. Unofficial fun goddammit, but fun nevertheless. Then I went back out for gym tasting. With Ricky The Git.
Ahem...
Now, there's a little bit of magicianry you need to understand here. To go back to the gym, I wore my gym shorts in place of underwear, and covered them with sweatpants. To do the actual gym work, I got rid of the sweatpants, and then to come home, I got out of the then-sweaty shorts, and went commando in the sweatpants.
Did I mention the snow? To make sure I didn't end up with soggy pant-bottoms, I tucked the sweats into my socks. That meant I was then walking through the snow, commando, in sweatpants that were pulling away from their useful position with every step.
"Please, gods I don't believe in, don't fuck me over today," I muttered, yanking up the pants against the demands of gravity.
Oh yeah, did I mention the snow? d had asked me to pick up some milk when I came out of the gym, so I was headed for the store before home. Except....it had snowed. Which meant half the Valley was in the store before me, panic-buying like consumerism and groceries were going out of fashion. I met d at the store, and we ended up with two big heavy bagfuls of assorted stuff. Now of course, it's in the Gentleman's Code (and also, as it happens, in the Douchebag Who Wants To Get Laid's Code) that when there are big heavy bags of groceries to be caried, the technical penis-owner is the one who gets to carry them. So now I was waddling, Chaplin-like, with a bag in each hand, trying, essentially to hula my trousers with every step so the action of each step didn't yank them over my newishly revealed hips.
"What...the...Hell?" said d, watching me.
I explained.
"Oh for God's..." she chuckled. "C'mere..."
And there, in a Merthyr arcade, she yanked up my sweater, undid the knot holding my trousers together, and re-did me.
"How you doin'?" I tried.
"Focus, dear...Fuck me," muttered d.
"Alrighty," I agreed. "Here and now?"
"Not on a bet, dear," said d. "I meant Fuck me, it's cold..."
"Mmm," I said, not quite ready to let go of the idea. "They say things work better when they're cold..."
"You maybe," said d, knotting the string in my pants extra tight as if to permanently seal the deal. "Me...notsomuch! Besides, I have one word for you..."
"Yeah?"
"Shrinkage."
"Point taken," I said, picking up the bags again.
Didn't rearrange the office as I'd planned today - we learned fairly early that our now-usual Sunday car boot sale had been all sorts of cancelled tomorrow, probably for fear of freezing people to death in the unheated chapel hall that is the venue. So we have all of tomorrow to do stuff to the apartment, and no gym appointments to attend.
Of course, all of this nonsense was on the backdrop of Merthyr Snow. Normally, on the 4th of February, we're busy dealing with Western New York Snow. Proper, ass-kicking, seriously-you-people-need-to-take-the-hint-that-weather-hates-you Snow. Because, every previous year, tomorrow, February 5th, we've tried to be over there for the celebration of d's mom's birthday. I'm not at all sure how we'll mark the occasion tomorrow. Guess we'll just take the day as it comes. I'd be lying if I said I missed the Healthcare Centre where she lived for the last handful of her years, but Lori and Dom, American food stores, American diners....goddamnsonofabitch pizza subs...Ahhh...I have a relatively new overdraft facility...hmmm...
Friday, 3 February 2012
Cupboard Living
Blood was 5.4 this morning. d was out for the morning, so no zumba. Mainly, I've been office-bound all day (deadline week for my mag). My office is white, and smallish, and rectangular, and packed with, frankly, my stuff. And I've been pretty much in there all day, working on the mag, pondering moving furniture around this weekend, and eventually, almost resentfully, biking half an ass off. Am also, as it happens, trying not to go mental. Been bouncing round in my head thinking about weighing every day, sometimes twice a day, sometimes more. Been bouncing round in my head thinking that I should be lighter by now, bitching about plateaus and why I'm not making progress and yadda yadda pity-me freakin yadda. So, probably, locking myself in a small white rectangular room wasn't the smartest thing to do.
Keeping busy though has pretty much kept the whining self-pitying, self-revolving bullshit at bay. So yay for a day of living in a really cool cupboard.
Tomorrow - back to the pool for aquacising, back to the gym for tasting, back to my cute little white cupboard to rearrange the shit out of it, and get me some systems in place for going forward.
Going away to watch some stuff now, to block the whispers in my brain.
Keeping busy though has pretty much kept the whining self-pitying, self-revolving bullshit at bay. So yay for a day of living in a really cool cupboard.
Tomorrow - back to the pool for aquacising, back to the gym for tasting, back to my cute little white cupboard to rearrange the shit out of it, and get me some systems in place for going forward.
Going away to watch some stuff now, to block the whispers in my brain.
Thursday, 2 February 2012
The Ferret Dance and The Greasy Path To Hell
Blood was 4.2 this morning...whatever that means any more.
Went aquacising again with d last night. A generally mixed-gender class of middle-aged-to-older fucks now know I have absolutely no sense of natural rhythm whatsoever, and gaze piteously at d whenever they stop water-punching and star-jumping and jazz-handsing, vaguely envisaging (or so I pananoically imagine) what our love life must be like, and mentally noting that she could do so much better.
It's an odd thing, but my demented sense of syncopation has, so far in all the world, found its best, most acceptable expression through the art of Zumba - to which I'm not going tomorrow, as d has an appointment elsewhere, and I'll be stone dead and fucked before I Zumbalone! Somehow, in the insane, sweaty, shouty Latin fug, my normal 'fat man having a spasm while trying to disengage ferrets from his fingers' dancing style makes a certain kind of moderately uninhibited sense. At all other times and in all other places...no! This is a fat fuck who doesn't dance - not because he doesn't want to, or is particularly self-conscious of looking like a dick...well, actually, let me re-phrase that...absolutely because he's not particularly self-conscious of looking like a dick. The general public feel a concerted need to be protected from my particular styler of fat fuck dancing.
But when there are moves, actual instructions of what goes where and when, I freeze. Most especially if there's more than one instruction at a time. So - standing in Aquacise, being told to put one leg forward and the opposite arm...and then hop and switch, then hop and switch, and so on...fried my brain. When the instructor added disco twists into the thing, I felt myself sinking relentlessly beneath the cool, cool water.
No pool today, because, really rather irritatingly, I lost my goggles on the way out of the pool. Think I left them in a locker, and when I went back to look for them, some other git had used the locker, locked it and gone in. Humph. d patiently reminds me that we have more than one set of goggles, but that's not really the point. They were my favourite goggles...(reverts to a pouting six-year-old, at least for the length of one day).
Did uber-cycle today though, to make up for not going anywhere near the pool. Then d came home and we went out to a local cafe for a spot of lunch. Nothing fancy - toasties and a bowl of sautee potatoes. Now, weirdly, these have never particularly registered with me as 'fried food', and so haven't been the subject of my perspex walls of dietary banishment. Then, today, d asked the waitress for some more information on them (no, really - more information on sauteed potatoes - did I mention my girl's a Foodie?!), and the waitress said "Oh, well...erm...they're just flat chips really..." (Rolls eyes - can't get proper culinary pretension in this town for love nor money...). Thing is, I still shared them. Felt guilty most of the afternoon of course, and am now awaiting the rumbling retribution of a trip to Xenical Hell, but I'm sort of working on the principle (really? A principle? You're not just making this shit up as you go along and justifying your own actions? Hmm...) that freaking out about every little thing puts the body in stress and doesn't let it lose anything anyway. Am going back on the bike a bit later, if I get a chance and can maintain the desire, but either way, the uberbiking session this morning should pretty much have made lunch calorifically null and void...I'm thinking...so...in a word...nehh!
Back to the novel tonight - Work-Life Balance and all that, ya know?
Went aquacising again with d last night. A generally mixed-gender class of middle-aged-to-older fucks now know I have absolutely no sense of natural rhythm whatsoever, and gaze piteously at d whenever they stop water-punching and star-jumping and jazz-handsing, vaguely envisaging (or so I pananoically imagine) what our love life must be like, and mentally noting that she could do so much better.
It's an odd thing, but my demented sense of syncopation has, so far in all the world, found its best, most acceptable expression through the art of Zumba - to which I'm not going tomorrow, as d has an appointment elsewhere, and I'll be stone dead and fucked before I Zumbalone! Somehow, in the insane, sweaty, shouty Latin fug, my normal 'fat man having a spasm while trying to disengage ferrets from his fingers' dancing style makes a certain kind of moderately uninhibited sense. At all other times and in all other places...no! This is a fat fuck who doesn't dance - not because he doesn't want to, or is particularly self-conscious of looking like a dick...well, actually, let me re-phrase that...absolutely because he's not particularly self-conscious of looking like a dick. The general public feel a concerted need to be protected from my particular styler of fat fuck dancing.
But when there are moves, actual instructions of what goes where and when, I freeze. Most especially if there's more than one instruction at a time. So - standing in Aquacise, being told to put one leg forward and the opposite arm...and then hop and switch, then hop and switch, and so on...fried my brain. When the instructor added disco twists into the thing, I felt myself sinking relentlessly beneath the cool, cool water.
No pool today, because, really rather irritatingly, I lost my goggles on the way out of the pool. Think I left them in a locker, and when I went back to look for them, some other git had used the locker, locked it and gone in. Humph. d patiently reminds me that we have more than one set of goggles, but that's not really the point. They were my favourite goggles...(reverts to a pouting six-year-old, at least for the length of one day).
Did uber-cycle today though, to make up for not going anywhere near the pool. Then d came home and we went out to a local cafe for a spot of lunch. Nothing fancy - toasties and a bowl of sautee potatoes. Now, weirdly, these have never particularly registered with me as 'fried food', and so haven't been the subject of my perspex walls of dietary banishment. Then, today, d asked the waitress for some more information on them (no, really - more information on sauteed potatoes - did I mention my girl's a Foodie?!), and the waitress said "Oh, well...erm...they're just flat chips really..." (Rolls eyes - can't get proper culinary pretension in this town for love nor money...). Thing is, I still shared them. Felt guilty most of the afternoon of course, and am now awaiting the rumbling retribution of a trip to Xenical Hell, but I'm sort of working on the principle (really? A principle? You're not just making this shit up as you go along and justifying your own actions? Hmm...) that freaking out about every little thing puts the body in stress and doesn't let it lose anything anyway. Am going back on the bike a bit later, if I get a chance and can maintain the desire, but either way, the uberbiking session this morning should pretty much have made lunch calorifically null and void...I'm thinking...so...in a word...nehh!
Back to the novel tonight - Work-Life Balance and all that, ya know?
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