Yesterday was okay. The test itself wasn't remotely difficult, all I had to do was just lie down and have flashing lights in my eyes for fifteen minutes and then breathe like Darth Vader during hayfever season for three minutes and then they let me have a kip. Staying awake for twenty-four hours prior to that, however, was pretty tough going. Between half past two and half past three I felt ridiculously hyper, between four and six I thought I was going crazy and felt like my eyeballs were going to fall out of their sockets. The worst part was the car journey to the hospital, I couldn't keep my eyes open!! I must've looked dreadful. I certainly felt like I'd died three weeks earlier and my body was just in the process of catching up with me...
When it finally came to the time the nurse let me sleep, and how I managed to stay awake through the rest of the test is still beyond me, as luck would have it - no sooner did I close my eyes than the workmen outside thought it'd be a great idea to start drilling the pavement. Not even a euphemism. Still, after approximately 28 hours, even if they'd started drilling in the exam room I wouldn't have noticed, I was out like a light for fifteen glorious minutes. Sigh. It was great.
Anyway, that's all over now and hopefully I won't have to do it again.
But today was my second weigh-in after a week of generally being good and refusing yummy stuff and being completely sober, I hopped back on the scales, waiting to see how I'd done. The llamas got their new leg-warmers on especially for the occasion, ready at any moment to put on the fiesta of all fiestas. I crossed my fingers, I thought thin thoughts, I said the magic words "Please don't let me put any weight on...!" and then looked at the number on the scales...
It was exactly the same. Exactly. To the ounce. Absolutely nothing had altered.
Positives: Hey, at least I didn't put any on!
Negatives: WTF?!?!?!?!?!?!!!!!!!!! What is the point in life?!!? Nothing is worth anything!! I AM POINTLESS!!! I should just die now and save the NHS time and expense on treating any future weight-related health issues!!!! *sob*
After having a mini-breakdown and writing seven different versions of a suicide note, I told my Mum when she came to visit. She said she'd been weighed the previous day and hopped on the scales to see what it said about her. If they're to be believed she put half a stone on in less than 24 hours... Then she said that the scales were actually third-hand and not very good.
So.... erm... Well, the llamas haven't done a fiesta today because we're all scratching our heads in confusion.
I'm changing the scales and getting weighed again tomorrow so I can start all over again. So the llamas will have an extra week to work on their routine. It will be spectacular. Or at least it should be.
Flippin' scales. They do have a habit of spoiling people's day. But they won't do next week!!!
Showing posts with label paranoia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label paranoia. Show all posts
Wednesday, 15 January 2014
Wednesday, 8 January 2014
The Weight of the Situation
So I've re-applied for my llama licence. I had to. I got a postcard from Miguel (I dunno how he managed it due to the lack of his opposable thumbs, but I didn't like to split hairs with him over it) saying that him and Ricardo are broke and can't find work. There are too many Llama Dancing Troupes in Bolivia and they aren't considered a novelty act over there any more. Javier left the troupe (I know, he was everyone's favourite) after an incident with one of the girl llamas in the local theatre and so they're all pretty down on their luck and want to come home as soon as possible. Ricardo's everyday legwarmers went threadbare about six months ago and he's been wearing his gold sparkle ones for the past three weeks which are starting to look a bit grubby. There are no local launderettes and Ricardo's nerves are like piano wires due to the fact he has to walk the streets of Bolivia wearing dirty legwarmers.
It was a very large postcard, that's how he managed to fit so much information on it.
For those of you new to my blog, I'd best explain that I am the proud owner of an invisible and completely imaginary troupe of dancing llamas who put on a fiesta for me every week during 2012 when I was losing weight. They've had a year off travelling around the world (although they finally settled in Bolivia) and going on adventures but now they're just about ready to come home.
This morning I weighed myself for the first time in fifteen months. It's an inaccuracy to say it was 'difficult', because it was actually remarkably easy - I just stood on a pair of scales and tried to think thin thoughts. The build-up, however, was a little daunting. Scales and I have never been friends. They have never said anything nice to me. Of all the plus sides associated with losing weight, stepping on a pair of scales every week was never something I had missed. Part of me secretly hoped that I hadn't really put any weight on at all and that someone had just blown me up with a foot-pump in the night when I wasn't looking. Another part of me worried that I'd put at least eight stone on (112 lbs, for the benefit of my American readers). But I knew that if I was ever going to get anywhere, then I'd need to take a deep breath and get back on the scales, so as soon as I'd woken up and while I was too tired to talk myself out of it, I weighed myself.
It was pretty much as I'd expected. I've put every single gram of weight back on - plus one pound for good luck. So I am more or less exactly where I started (after all, when you weigh the same as an entire rugby league squad, what's an extra pound between friends?!) two years ago. Which, actually, is a really good thing. The slate is completely wiped clean. I can start completely afresh. I know what mistakes I made last time, I know how quickly the weight came off last time so I won't get as impatient with myself. I know what to be aware of and I know not to be afraid that losing weight won't ever happen, because I know it will.
I'm back to Square One - but this time I've got one up on myself from last time. This isn't new ground. I've got this. I've done this, I've been here. And now I know exactly where I'm going...
It was a very large postcard, that's how he managed to fit so much information on it.
For those of you new to my blog, I'd best explain that I am the proud owner of an invisible and completely imaginary troupe of dancing llamas who put on a fiesta for me every week during 2012 when I was losing weight. They've had a year off travelling around the world (although they finally settled in Bolivia) and going on adventures but now they're just about ready to come home.
This morning I weighed myself for the first time in fifteen months. It's an inaccuracy to say it was 'difficult', because it was actually remarkably easy - I just stood on a pair of scales and tried to think thin thoughts. The build-up, however, was a little daunting. Scales and I have never been friends. They have never said anything nice to me. Of all the plus sides associated with losing weight, stepping on a pair of scales every week was never something I had missed. Part of me secretly hoped that I hadn't really put any weight on at all and that someone had just blown me up with a foot-pump in the night when I wasn't looking. Another part of me worried that I'd put at least eight stone on (112 lbs, for the benefit of my American readers). But I knew that if I was ever going to get anywhere, then I'd need to take a deep breath and get back on the scales, so as soon as I'd woken up and while I was too tired to talk myself out of it, I weighed myself.
It was pretty much as I'd expected. I've put every single gram of weight back on - plus one pound for good luck. So I am more or less exactly where I started (after all, when you weigh the same as an entire rugby league squad, what's an extra pound between friends?!) two years ago. Which, actually, is a really good thing. The slate is completely wiped clean. I can start completely afresh. I know what mistakes I made last time, I know how quickly the weight came off last time so I won't get as impatient with myself. I know what to be aware of and I know not to be afraid that losing weight won't ever happen, because I know it will.
I'm back to Square One - but this time I've got one up on myself from last time. This isn't new ground. I've got this. I've done this, I've been here. And now I know exactly where I'm going...
**********Cue theme music to Rocky**********
Wednesday, 1 August 2012
24 Toasters from Scunthorpe
Prizes will be handed out to anyone who gets the reference in today's blog title. Answers to the usual address.
It's Wednesday. Just over 24 hours to go and I'll be hopping back on those scales for the first time in three weeks.
I. Am. Terrified.
What if I've thought I've been doing the right things for the last week or two and actually I haven't and I've put a couple of stone on? Actually, is that biologically possible? Even if it isn't I bet I probably still would!!
When you do something unpleasant on a regular basis, the pleasantness doesn't improve, because it's always a horrible thing to do, but the discomfort does subside a little because you're used to it. I can't really think of anything nearly as unpleasant to willingly put oneself through aside from going to work every day. You have to do it because otherwise you starve, it isn't pleasant but you go anyway, and then you usually find it isn't quite so hellish when you get there. Unless you work for the NHS. Fabulous institution, Britain's best idea by miles - absolutely terrible employer.
I'm going off-topic.
My point is, I avoided scales like the plague until January, and then I've subsequently I've hopped on a pair every week for the last 26 weeks or so. I never liked getting on the scales but it had become a slightly less scary prospect. After 20 days away from the scales, half of which were spent mostly in blissful varying stages of inebriation - I have roughly the same desire to get back on the scales as a Death Row convict has when offered a seat a large chair near an electric switch.
But it's one of those things, isn't it? I've got to do it otherwise I'll just slip back into the old routine, and I really don't want that. I've come much too far now. Or at least I think I have. Who knows.
What if the worst happens? What if I do get on the scales tomorrow and even though I've reined it back in SO much over the last ten days I've still put weight on? Am I going to give up? Go back to how things used to be? Think "I'll never get there" and cry for an hour? Probably. But then after I've cried for an hour I'll have a stern talk to myself, stop being weak and pathetic and get the hell back on it again. Marathon. Not a sprint. I will get there. Whether that happens this year or next year. I gave myself 18 months to do this, and on June 3rd 2013 I will look completely different to how I looked on January 1st 2012. I will. I'll even post pictures to prove it.
Maybe!
Join me on Friday. I will have got back on the scales and I'll know exactly what I'm working with. The llamas are going to have a fiesta anyway because it's the Olympics and Ricardo has decided to try and campaign for 'fiesta-ing' to be an Olympic sport. He's even designed Team GB's legwarmers for the Rio Olympics...
It's Wednesday. Just over 24 hours to go and I'll be hopping back on those scales for the first time in three weeks.
I. Am. Terrified.
What if I've thought I've been doing the right things for the last week or two and actually I haven't and I've put a couple of stone on? Actually, is that biologically possible? Even if it isn't I bet I probably still would!!
When you do something unpleasant on a regular basis, the pleasantness doesn't improve, because it's always a horrible thing to do, but the discomfort does subside a little because you're used to it. I can't really think of anything nearly as unpleasant to willingly put oneself through aside from going to work every day. You have to do it because otherwise you starve, it isn't pleasant but you go anyway, and then you usually find it isn't quite so hellish when you get there. Unless you work for the NHS. Fabulous institution, Britain's best idea by miles - absolutely terrible employer.
I'm going off-topic.
My point is, I avoided scales like the plague until January, and then I've subsequently I've hopped on a pair every week for the last 26 weeks or so. I never liked getting on the scales but it had become a slightly less scary prospect. After 20 days away from the scales, half of which were spent mostly in blissful varying stages of inebriation - I have roughly the same desire to get back on the scales as a Death Row convict has when offered a seat a large chair near an electric switch.
But it's one of those things, isn't it? I've got to do it otherwise I'll just slip back into the old routine, and I really don't want that. I've come much too far now. Or at least I think I have. Who knows.
What if the worst happens? What if I do get on the scales tomorrow and even though I've reined it back in SO much over the last ten days I've still put weight on? Am I going to give up? Go back to how things used to be? Think "I'll never get there" and cry for an hour? Probably. But then after I've cried for an hour I'll have a stern talk to myself, stop being weak and pathetic and get the hell back on it again. Marathon. Not a sprint. I will get there. Whether that happens this year or next year. I gave myself 18 months to do this, and on June 3rd 2013 I will look completely different to how I looked on January 1st 2012. I will. I'll even post pictures to prove it.
Maybe!
Join me on Friday. I will have got back on the scales and I'll know exactly what I'm working with. The llamas are going to have a fiesta anyway because it's the Olympics and Ricardo has decided to try and campaign for 'fiesta-ing' to be an Olympic sport. He's even designed Team GB's legwarmers for the Rio Olympics...
Monday, 12 March 2012
Crash! Boom! Bang!
Can't believe it's Monday again. Can't a girl get a break?! All I want is just one day off, just one, on my own, to get my little head straight, to get some things done that need doing and to just have a few hours of silence. God. Sounds like heaven. It's all too much. I need everything to stop for a while so my head stops spinning. I have a feeling it won't happen until at least Easter, though. Even then, I have my doubts!
Saturday was lovely. I haven't seen my niece and nephews (collectively still termed 'the kids' despite the fact they're all grown up and only a few years younger than I am) all year. Which is partly due to general bad auntie-dom, but also due to the fact Southport is a hell of a place to navigate into and out of on public transport - and the fact my niece now lives in Bristol. Which is quite a walk. Still, getting to spend time with any of them is on my favourite things to do in the whole world list - so spending time with all three of them at once made me ridiculously happy. It's my Mum and Dad's 50th anniversary at the end of March and the celebrations began on Saturday. Well. Technically I think they began last Wednesday when Mum invited some of my cousins over, but this was the first actual party for them, and there will be more celebrations as the month progresses. I mean, why not? If you're going to celebrate something so monumental, do it properly!!
I got really upset yesterday. I have never known an overweight person get heckled more than I do while minding their own business walking down the street. Honestly. It's ridiculous. I must be some sort of monster. People must visibly recoil in horror when they look at me and get a little bit sick in their mouths at the sight of the putrid mass that is me. Honestly. I was just walking to my pal's house, feeling quite proud of myself for not being knackered at the half-way point, when I saw three kids on the pavement a bit further up the road. I hate children (I say 'children', they were probably about 17, however, evidently still not old enough to have learned any people skills), as you know, so I thought rather than have to share the same airspace as them, I'd just cross the road. As I did, this happened:
BOY 1: Bloody hell, you're fat, aren't you?
ME: [thinking] Ignore him, ignore him, he may be talking to... someone else... even if you are the only other person on the street!
BOY 1: Erm, excuse me, didn't you hear me?
ME: [thinking] Holy hell! Vile people are getting braver! I wish I knew more people on this road so I could just call on them and hide till they went away!
BOY 2: I'm sorry, were you talking to me, I thought you were talking to the fat person who just crossed the road!
ME: [thinking] If only there was a convenient tall building I could throw myself off at this juncture - it'd be over quickly, I must have one hell of a gravitational pull!!
I mean - goodness only knows what they'd've said if they'd seen me walking down the street at the beginning of January, they'd've probably had a heart attack - as between all three of them they probably only have one heart.
I know. I know what you're all saying. They're idiots - and this is true. They were only showing off in front of their friends - and this is true too, because one of them was a girl. I am quite aware that their hostility and attempts to humiliate me in public was merely due to the fact that they likely have to compensate for inadequate-sized, ineffectual genetalia. And I do derive a smug sense of satisfaction that, if they ever read this blog entry, they wouldn't have a clue what the last sentence meant. But then you can't help that little voice in the back of your head saying, "They're only saying what everyone else is thinking because they don't know you so they're not worried about offending you." You'd think, the more it happened, the less it'd hurt, but to be honest, it doesn't hurt any less - if anything, especially after all the hard work I've put in over the last nine weeks, it hurts more.
I'm feeling very wobbly at the moment, I think that's what I'm saying. I keep having dreams about devouring the contents of a sweet shop and I wake up feeling really bloated and horrible, even though I know I haven't really eaten anything. I felt a bit of a failure on Thursday night and managed to talk myself round by Friday - but now I feel as though perhaps my initial self-loathing was possibly warranted. The thing is, I'm really doing my best and I feel like it isn't good enough but I've no idea what else I can possibly do to make it better. I know I'm a bit grumpy, but by and large I like to think I'm quite a nice person - I definitely wouldn't go out of my way to upset anyone, and I don't understand why complete strangers feel the need to inform me of how large I am when I am clearly already painfully aware of the fact. Really. Stop it. It's fine. I know. I'm doing something about it. It isn't a miracle cure, it's a long, hard slog - so it'll take time, but I'm doing it. Just... back off and stop heckling me! I wouldn't mind but they're not even funny like Stadler and Waldorf from The Muppet Show!!
So, all in all, I'm feeling far too Mondayish for my own good today. Still. There's only seven hours until I'm on the train on my way home. Sorry. Six hours and fifty nine minutes...
Join me again on Wednesday. The good thing about that will be the fact that as I'm already pretty much at rock bottom today, I can't hit a midweek slump by Wednesday - so with any luck I'll be feeling far more cheerful and positive about everything. Well. Perhaps!!
Saturday was lovely. I haven't seen my niece and nephews (collectively still termed 'the kids' despite the fact they're all grown up and only a few years younger than I am) all year. Which is partly due to general bad auntie-dom, but also due to the fact Southport is a hell of a place to navigate into and out of on public transport - and the fact my niece now lives in Bristol. Which is quite a walk. Still, getting to spend time with any of them is on my favourite things to do in the whole world list - so spending time with all three of them at once made me ridiculously happy. It's my Mum and Dad's 50th anniversary at the end of March and the celebrations began on Saturday. Well. Technically I think they began last Wednesday when Mum invited some of my cousins over, but this was the first actual party for them, and there will be more celebrations as the month progresses. I mean, why not? If you're going to celebrate something so monumental, do it properly!!
I got really upset yesterday. I have never known an overweight person get heckled more than I do while minding their own business walking down the street. Honestly. It's ridiculous. I must be some sort of monster. People must visibly recoil in horror when they look at me and get a little bit sick in their mouths at the sight of the putrid mass that is me. Honestly. I was just walking to my pal's house, feeling quite proud of myself for not being knackered at the half-way point, when I saw three kids on the pavement a bit further up the road. I hate children (I say 'children', they were probably about 17, however, evidently still not old enough to have learned any people skills), as you know, so I thought rather than have to share the same airspace as them, I'd just cross the road. As I did, this happened:
BOY 1: Bloody hell, you're fat, aren't you?
ME: [thinking] Ignore him, ignore him, he may be talking to... someone else... even if you are the only other person on the street!
BOY 1: Erm, excuse me, didn't you hear me?
ME: [thinking] Holy hell! Vile people are getting braver! I wish I knew more people on this road so I could just call on them and hide till they went away!
BOY 2: I'm sorry, were you talking to me, I thought you were talking to the fat person who just crossed the road!
ME: [thinking] If only there was a convenient tall building I could throw myself off at this juncture - it'd be over quickly, I must have one hell of a gravitational pull!!
I mean - goodness only knows what they'd've said if they'd seen me walking down the street at the beginning of January, they'd've probably had a heart attack - as between all three of them they probably only have one heart.
I know. I know what you're all saying. They're idiots - and this is true. They were only showing off in front of their friends - and this is true too, because one of them was a girl. I am quite aware that their hostility and attempts to humiliate me in public was merely due to the fact that they likely have to compensate for inadequate-sized, ineffectual genetalia. And I do derive a smug sense of satisfaction that, if they ever read this blog entry, they wouldn't have a clue what the last sentence meant. But then you can't help that little voice in the back of your head saying, "They're only saying what everyone else is thinking because they don't know you so they're not worried about offending you." You'd think, the more it happened, the less it'd hurt, but to be honest, it doesn't hurt any less - if anything, especially after all the hard work I've put in over the last nine weeks, it hurts more.
I'm feeling very wobbly at the moment, I think that's what I'm saying. I keep having dreams about devouring the contents of a sweet shop and I wake up feeling really bloated and horrible, even though I know I haven't really eaten anything. I felt a bit of a failure on Thursday night and managed to talk myself round by Friday - but now I feel as though perhaps my initial self-loathing was possibly warranted. The thing is, I'm really doing my best and I feel like it isn't good enough but I've no idea what else I can possibly do to make it better. I know I'm a bit grumpy, but by and large I like to think I'm quite a nice person - I definitely wouldn't go out of my way to upset anyone, and I don't understand why complete strangers feel the need to inform me of how large I am when I am clearly already painfully aware of the fact. Really. Stop it. It's fine. I know. I'm doing something about it. It isn't a miracle cure, it's a long, hard slog - so it'll take time, but I'm doing it. Just... back off and stop heckling me! I wouldn't mind but they're not even funny like Stadler and Waldorf from The Muppet Show!!
So, all in all, I'm feeling far too Mondayish for my own good today. Still. There's only seven hours until I'm on the train on my way home. Sorry. Six hours and fifty nine minutes...
Join me again on Wednesday. The good thing about that will be the fact that as I'm already pretty much at rock bottom today, I can't hit a midweek slump by Wednesday - so with any luck I'll be feeling far more cheerful and positive about everything. Well. Perhaps!!
Wednesday, 15 February 2012
Happy Hump Day!
Hands up anyone who isn't feeling good about tomorrow night's weigh-in?
Anyone??
Anyone???
Anyone????
Just me, then.
I don't understand it. This week has been a very skint week in Wainwright Mansions, and as a result, I haven't really eaten very much of anything. Breakfast has been minimal. Lunch has been merely a token. Tea has been a much more pleasant affair, in all honesty, but still. There's not really been much of anything to overindulge in. And trust me, this week I would happily have overindulged in paper if it was classed as a superspeed food!! Gah! So hungry. Constantly. Adolescent type hungry.
So, despite the fact that I haven't quite noshed like a lord this week, even though I could have - I still somehow have managed to feel very bloated and uncomfortable. I can tell I've put weight on. I can feel that roll of fat I lost a couple fo weeks ago simply clawing its way back onto my person. I must be the only human on earth who can eat less and put weight on.
All will be revealed tomorrow, undoubtedly. But don't hold your breath. For a start, your face will go a funny colour.
So. It's Wednesday. That can only mean one thing - it's Masterchef tonight, guest starring the most aptly-named chef of all time - Tom Kitchin. I know, really, I didn't believe it either, at first. Imagine if he'd done anything else. People would be dead confused. There's a Japanese girl on it who is some sort of scientific genius, apparently she's got a degree in Quantum Physics or something equally scary sounding, and she is absolutely as batty as Dracula at a Twilight party. I think the lovely John Torode has got a bit of a soft spot for her as well. I'm not too sure how sensible it is to watch cookery shows that glamourise things like cream, butter, flour and deep frying shizz while one is on a diet, but... well. I haven't put any weight on just by looking at any of the puddings *yet*...!!
Slimming World have apparently started up a new incentive called Let's Beat Obesity. I'm sure we'll hear all about it tomorrow but I think it's some sort of 12-week booster program. When they did the initiative last year, apparently Slimming World members in the UK and Ireland lost over 3,000,000 lbs altogether!! 12 weeks is a good enough length of time. That'll take us to... what... probably the end of May. Who knows - perhaps it'll be just the thing to take my rather stilted weight loss to the next level?? I'll keep you all posted about that. Sounds pretty interesting so far.
Join me on Friday for an excited look towards my fun-filled Olly Murs Weekend in Manchester with the big sister and her pals from work. I will also provide a full report of my adventures at the weigh-in, and I'll let you know if the llamas have been let out of their stable this week. I do have some freshly-laundered leg warmers on standby, just in case...
Anyone??
Anyone???
Anyone????
Just me, then.
I don't understand it. This week has been a very skint week in Wainwright Mansions, and as a result, I haven't really eaten very much of anything. Breakfast has been minimal. Lunch has been merely a token. Tea has been a much more pleasant affair, in all honesty, but still. There's not really been much of anything to overindulge in. And trust me, this week I would happily have overindulged in paper if it was classed as a superspeed food!! Gah! So hungry. Constantly. Adolescent type hungry.
So, despite the fact that I haven't quite noshed like a lord this week, even though I could have - I still somehow have managed to feel very bloated and uncomfortable. I can tell I've put weight on. I can feel that roll of fat I lost a couple fo weeks ago simply clawing its way back onto my person. I must be the only human on earth who can eat less and put weight on.
All will be revealed tomorrow, undoubtedly. But don't hold your breath. For a start, your face will go a funny colour.
So. It's Wednesday. That can only mean one thing - it's Masterchef tonight, guest starring the most aptly-named chef of all time - Tom Kitchin. I know, really, I didn't believe it either, at first. Imagine if he'd done anything else. People would be dead confused. There's a Japanese girl on it who is some sort of scientific genius, apparently she's got a degree in Quantum Physics or something equally scary sounding, and she is absolutely as batty as Dracula at a Twilight party. I think the lovely John Torode has got a bit of a soft spot for her as well. I'm not too sure how sensible it is to watch cookery shows that glamourise things like cream, butter, flour and deep frying shizz while one is on a diet, but... well. I haven't put any weight on just by looking at any of the puddings *yet*...!!
Slimming World have apparently started up a new incentive called Let's Beat Obesity. I'm sure we'll hear all about it tomorrow but I think it's some sort of 12-week booster program. When they did the initiative last year, apparently Slimming World members in the UK and Ireland lost over 3,000,000 lbs altogether!! 12 weeks is a good enough length of time. That'll take us to... what... probably the end of May. Who knows - perhaps it'll be just the thing to take my rather stilted weight loss to the next level?? I'll keep you all posted about that. Sounds pretty interesting so far.
Join me on Friday for an excited look towards my fun-filled Olly Murs Weekend in Manchester with the big sister and her pals from work. I will also provide a full report of my adventures at the weigh-in, and I'll let you know if the llamas have been let out of their stable this week. I do have some freshly-laundered leg warmers on standby, just in case...
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