Ah me, dear reader, you may have guessed from my uncharitable post about fat people and sex that i am on a diet. It is not exactly self chosen, but tis willingly under-taken, given the immortal (or mortally threatening actually) words of NHS nurse Jenny on taking my BP – “I think you need to lose weight, or die”.
It was brutal but necessary. I have been over-wieght for most of my adult life and like most of the population, beastly careless about it. I was loved, I had work, I could make myself attractive – I still had offers of the entirely carnal kind. But my health was suffering. I had/have aches and pains all over the place (yes, in places i don’t even recognise as bits of me), too many head-aches, too many days not really feeling well. This coupled with a highly stressful job meant my BP was through the roof and I knew i was drinking (even if in the sanctity of my own home) far too much, consoling myself with the “well, a girl’s got to have some pleasures in life” as i collapsed at the end of yet another long hard day.
I knew as i went to the surgery that my days were numbered – that it was time to do something serious about weight and health. I had reached the point of no-return. I have been this heavy in the past, but was younger then, less stressed, BP not an issue and things didn’t hurt. It’s age – it’s caught up with me. I’ve dieted successfully in the past too – before the nuptials, after the first child, during 6 months apart from beloved. But some catastrophe befell me soon after the loss and i was back where i started. To be fair to my girls, they were not catastrophes (cancer was – i must be one of the few people who didn’t fade to a shadow in the wake of treatment), but the combination of babies, work and life – well keeping control of your weight too – especially when your only vices are simple things, like wine and pizza, was too big an ask. My problem has always been the need for small treats, just something to keep you going, reward the efforts, forestall the darkness.
Ah, yes, years of fatty things, savoury things – not a lot of sugar or sweets; hence my teeth are fine, so that’s something. So, dear reader, 10 kilos in 6 weeks is not too shabby. But it has been hard fought and the battle is long and will take many surges and need for reinforcements.
I have given up the following: pinot grigio, blue cheese (oh how i miss my Castello), croissants, ham, chocolate (Toblerone to be precise), sausages, spuds with butter and salt; plus a host of other bits and pieces. I have taken up: Ryvitas (again), diet sliced cheese, tomatoes, granny smith apples (but i do like them, anyway), carrots and broccoli, skinless chicken, lean steak, salad, asparagus, oodles of water and too much black coffee.
Have i cheated? Yes. How else can you survive? But I feel much better, people have noticed and there is no turning back. I’ll never make wedding dress weight again – too much saggy flesh to get there (there is plastic surgery, isn’t there, but could we ever afford it?) but i will get to a healthy number and stay there. Already i’m losing the taste for fat, preferring the feel of my pants loosening, of moving down a dress size, of seeing some bones re-appearing from beneath the swathes of flesh. I can move easier, my feet hurt less, even my knees are less painful, and interestingly, I’m sleeping better. All this for 10 kilos, imagine how wonderful I’ll feel when i’ve dropped another 10 and then another after that? Oh, yes, there is that far to go.
Four weeks in France looms, a well earned rest, but a serious temptation for the easily tempted – especially in a country that abounds in the very treats i have foresworn. It will be a tricky time. But the dog will need walking and i cant go back, i must go on. Moderation perhaps, instead of extreme indulgence. Now there’s a novel idea.