Losing It

My mad, crazy journey to health and beyond

I got 99 problems but the scale ain’t one

I’ve been single for 2.5 years, but for the past 5 years I’ve been in a committed, monogamous relationship – with three numbers on the scale. In 2008/9 I went from 130kg down to 80kg, and I was loving life. But because shit happens and my head wasn’t screwed on right, I ate my way back up the food chain, eventually tipping the scales at 135kg – my heaviest ever. It wasn’t exactly what I would call my proudest moment.

Although it wasn’t something I brought up at parties, there was something cruelly, ridiculously embarrassing about weighing over 100kg. It’s difficult to feel sexy or feminine when you’re built like an NFL linebacker, and knowing that most of the guys you’re friends with weigh less than you do is just crushing in the extreme. Disney princesses don’t weigh over 100kg. (Ursula in The Little Mermaid did though, and we all know how that turned out.) Clothes don’t fit, fucking bathtubs don’t fit, and you have more chance of finding Jimmy Hoffa’s body than you do of finding a sports bra that fits (because apparently if you weigh over 100kg you don’t deserve support, least of all in the chest area).

I think if I stretched this it might fit over one of my boobs.

I think if I stretched this it might fit over one of my boobs.

My ultimate goal has always been to lose 65kgs (losingit65, get it?) and get down to 70kg, but the gigantic, biggest milestone ever has always been to step on the scale, and just for once, for ONCE, see only two numbers in front of the decimal point. Because those two numbers represent more than just digits to me – they represent success, hope, achievement, and the belief that finally, FINALLY I will get where I’m going, and I’ll make it stick. It’s not just 99 kilograms – it’s a promise to the part of me that doesn’t quite believe we’ll ever get there, that by fuck, we have come this far, we have lost 35kgs, and dammit, we are going to take this all the way, no matter how much kicking and screaming and swearing and drinking of sparkling water gets done. Two numbers, with a wealth of meaning behind them.

And so, because I am sick to death of looking like a chest of drawers with legs, for the past 19 weeks, I have been WORKING MY ASS OFF. Trail runs, parkruns, macros, weights, more macros, more weights, no booze, no junk, no falling off the wagon, no getting depressed, just moving forward, always forward, sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly, always determined. I’ve had big drops, plateaus, unexplained weight gains, the works. When they say it’s not a linear journey, they mean it. But the secret is to just put all that stuff in your Fuck That Shit file, and keep on going. Because, as Joey says in Friends, “If you want something enough and your heart is pure, wondrous things can happen!”

So tell me, do you think this qualifies as wondrous?


OHHHHHHHH YEAHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!



I know you’re all probably blinded by the awesomeness of my luxury Rouge Spa pedicure (who knew paraffin wax could be so satisfying?) but that right there is what success looks like!

And this is also what success looks like:


Post-gym success, hence the hair.

Appropriately enough, the colour of my Morgan Taylor pedicure is “Take Me To Your Tribe” – and that’s exactly where I’ve gone. The tribe of the people who weigh 99 kilograms. I wonder if Jeff Probst is here…?

I know that 99.9kg is breaking the barrier by the skin of my teeth, but to quote Vin Diesel (who should always be quoted), “it doesn’t matter if you win by an inch or a mile – winning’s winning”. True dat. Now I just have to make sure I don’t eat anything all week, so I don’t go over 100kg again. It’s probably a good time to invite me out for dinner because I’m going to be a really cheap date.

So where do we go from here? Well, I’ve still got 29.9kg to lose (fuck me that feels SO MUCH BETTER than saying 65!) so I’m still going to be crushing it. But one thing I’m not going to be doing is going over 100kg again. EVER. Ain’t nobody got time for that. In the words of Lindsey Buckingham (look him up if you’re under 30), “mmhmm, never going back again”.

A big thank you to the wonderful men of Evo, David Cross and De Waal Gerstner, for helping me get here, and a giant hug and a kiss to all my fabulous friends for your enthusiastic, tireless, enduring support. This journey wouldn’t have been half as much fun without you, and it’s twice as wonderful to be able to share it with you.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go eat my breakfast, and not weigh myself again for about a month.

Smoochies xxxx

Kiss 1


I’m going down (with apologies to Mary J Blige)

So I haven’t posted much here about my weigh-ins lately, mostly because for the past few weeks they’ve been a knock-down drag-out battle between me and the scale, and have pretty much been following the same tiresome pattern:

Nicola behaves like a champ all week long.

Nicola steps on the scale.

Nicola looks down.


Nicola and gravity are no longer friends. Fuck you Isaac Newton. I hope you choke on an apple core.

Of course if you prefer visual aids, we can do that too.

This is my weigh-in after my high school reunion, where I did a fabulously sickening goody-two-shoes Pollyanna act:


Wooohooo Nicola for the win!

So of course I’m thinking, hey only 700g to go – I got this!!!!!

Which is why the following week, the universe countered with, oh no you don’t bitch:



But I’m thinking it’s ok, it’s ok, shit happens, water retention, inflammation, blah blah. It’s all good, just keep going and we’ll smash it next time.

Which is when the universe decided to deliver me a gravitational bitchslap of epic proportions:


Seriously? SERIOUSLY?? Two kilograms UP in two weeks? My “fuck this shit” file is getting bigger by the day.

It’s hard enough to carry on when you only lose 100-200g, or heaven forbid, don’t go down at all. Do you know how frustratingly, excruciatingly difficult it is to carry on with all the eating and training and healthiness when you have gained two kilos for ABSOLUTELY NO REASON??? Jou scale se poes.

In the past I would have thought, why bother, and then drowned my sorrows in a sea of pizza, fried chicken, chips and ice cream. But honestly I was just too exhausted and demotivated to eat myself happy. So I told myself to snap out of it, put on my big girl panties (which are looking a lot smaller these days) and just carried on.

In fact I did more than carry on, I chilled out as well. While I wouldn’t say I’m obsessed with going under 100kg, I do think about it often, and wonder when it’s going to happen, and choreograph a victory dance to go with it, and mentally write my blog post about it, and plan a 99 party to celebrate. So ja, not obsessed at all. Ahem.

Instead this week I just chilled the fuck out. It’s going to happen sometime. It can’t not. It goes against the laws of physics (I’m looking at you here Isaac Newton). Eventually at some point, my healthy eating and regular training and positive mindset will result in me achieving my double digits goal, and then going beyond that to ultimately reach my goal weight. All it’s going to take is time. And that’s something I’ve got plenty of.

So I put it out of my mind, ate healthy stuff, lifted heavy stuff, thought about happy stuff, and then got on the scale yesterday to see this:



So yes, I’m going down. <insert crude joke here> Will I carry on going down? Will my body carry on playing silly buggers and start going here, there and everywhere again? Will I ever meet George Clooney? Who knows. All I know is that while I can’t control my body, I can control my mind – and it seems that when I think positive things, I get positive results. So that’s what I’m going to keep on doing.

Double digits, I’ll see you soon. In the meantime I’m too busy living to worry about you. Peace out.



Losing It is taking over Facebook! (ish)

So this morning I had an idea in the shower. (If you’re alone in there you have plenty of time to think.) My ultimate goal (apart from losing weight, looking fly and showing George Clooney what a terrible mistake he made) is to be a powerful weight loss inspiration for women. That’s what gets me up at 5am, that’s what makes me put one foot in front of the other when I want to die on a trail run, and that’s what makes me say, “oh no thanks, no chips/ice cream/pizza/Steers/KFC/fun for me”. FML


Me. Dying on a trail run.

Anyway, I thought, since I practically live on Facebook (thank god I work for myself), why not use that to help get my message across too? I’m constantly being bombarded with people’s groups for security systems, finance, dogs, arts and crafts, shoes that look like cake (yes) – why not take the same opportunity to annoy the crap out of people with my own Facebook group? It’s a winner of an idea!

Which is why to that end I have created the oh so fabulous, oh so fantastic “Losing It” Facebook group, as a way of sharing the ups and downs of my own journey, sharing my blog posts, sharing my love of swearing, and hopefully sharing my successes too.

So to all the ladies out there (sorry guys) who are interested in losing weight, improving their health, looking at pictures of me in my underwear, or just having a laugh (sometimes at the pictures of me in my underwear), I’d love for you to join. I’ll do my best to make it worth your while.

And if you’re already a member, thanks for placing your trust in me, thanks for opting to have my crap all over your news feed, and thanks for your support. This isn’t an easy journey, so the more people there are to help, commiserate and laugh along the way, the easier it becomes.

You can find my spectacularly wonderful, brand spanking new group here: https://www.facebook.com/groups/494162807353807/requests/?notif_t=group_r2j

And if you have any ideas or suggestions as to what type of content you’d like to see there, please let me know. It’s a group, not a dictatorship, and I’d love to take your ideas on board.

Thanks again for the support, and I look forward to both welcoming you, and wowing you too. Losing It for the win!!

Kiss 1


The Tinder Chronicles: A Digital Fairytale


Once upon a time there was a young woman who lived all alone in a great castle. The young (and fabulously attractive) woman was the sole ruler of her kingdom, and while she loved the freedom and independence that her position afforded her, she sometimes looked at the bright shiny throne next to hers, and wondered if it wasn’t time to seat someone in it. Someone to bring her coffee, laugh at her jokes, and say “there, there” when things weren’t going terribly well. And maybe bang once in a while.

So the young, amazingly beautiful woman consulted her advisors, and asked their opinion. “Oh wise and powerful ones”, she beseeched, “where oh where will I find someone to sit on the throne next to me and bring me blankies in winter and tell me my jeans make me look fabulous?” The advisors threw the bones, drew the cards and rubbed their balls (of crystal) and returned to the young woman (who was now looking even younger and more fetching than before) with their answer.

“Oh great and powerful leader of ours”, they declared, “the spirits have spoken. In order to find someone to help you change your tyres and carry your groceries up two flights of stairs, you must journey to the land… of… TINDER!”

“Tinder?” she replied. “Never heard of it.”

“It’s this new app thing; you can get it off Google Play”, offered the youngest mage.


And so the princess (of course the woman was a princess, this is a fairytale after all) sat herself down with a glass of the land’s finest sparkling water (she was on a sobriety kick; The Brothers Grimm have it covered) and proceeded to journey to the land of Tinder with the help of her trusty Samsung Galaxy S5 (shameless UNPAID product placement, hint hint Samsung).

“Mirror, mirror in my hand, show me the finest men in all the land.”

And show her the Samsung Galaxy S5 did. Men running and surfing and rock climbing and hiking and parachuting and skiing and doing all manner of outdoorsy testosterony things. The princess was most impressed – until that point the most macho thing she had seen a man do was work a Nespresso machine. And not very well at that. Clearly the land had been repopulated with a new breed of fabulous manly men! And she was most taken with the idea.

Prince Charming

So she clicked a few nos, clicked a few yeses, and sat back and waited for the suitors to arrive in their droves.

Thankfully, because the princess had ensured that all of her insanely fabulous profile pictures were shot by a professional photographer, she didn’t have to wait long.


Ooh, a message, how exciting, thought the princess. Let’s see what they have to say.

“Wr r u?”

Sigh. Already this is going well.

“At home.”

“U hv kds?”


“Wanna hv sum fun?”

“Ooh yes I’d love to! I think carnivals are super fun. Do you want to go to a carnival?!”



Oh well, thought the princess, better luck next time. Fortunately, next time proved to be just five short minutes later.

“Hi, what you up to?”

Fabulous, thought the princess. This one speaks English!

“It’s Sunday night. Having some coffee, watching Friends, having some close personal moments with my couch.”

“Sounds awesome. Can I come round for coffee?”

Even better – a sense of humour!

“Haha sure why not, I’ll put the kettle on.”

“So where do you live, I’m coming from Table View.”

“Get bent.”


Okay so we’re 0 for 2, thought the princess. That’s ok – I hear another princess in a faraway land had to kiss a lot of frogs before she found her prince. These are just my frogs – I’ll find my prince soon. And with that she went to bed.

The princess woke up to a lovely new bright shiny day – and a message on her phone.

4:38am – “Hey there beautiful!”

4:38am?? I’m judging you a little here, I gotta say.


The princess deleted the message from the jesting drunkard and went about her day. And at 10am a now-familiar sound broke through the birdsong and announced the arrival of another suitor.



“What are you doing?”

“Not much, just working. You?”

“Can I come over and visit?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Can I come over and visit you?”

“At 10 in the morning, you want to come over to my house?”


“Are you fucking kidding me??”


But just before the princess gave up all hope of ever finding a male who could speak English and keep his pants on for longer than five minutes, she managed to not only find messages from, but make a date with two suitors who seemed vaguely promising. So off she trotted with her high heels and her fancy makeup on, wondering if either of these would be the person to run her a bath and bring her Season 4 of Game of Thrones.

Date #1: Football, football, football, obscure art house movies, life insurance, football.



Date #2: Lego, Lord of the Rings, work, computers, alcoholism, mild racism, banality.



And after coming home before 9pm on a Friday and taking off all her fancy makeup and putting on her comfy sweatshirt, the princess came to realise something. She liked ruling her own kingdom. She liked having the freedom to make her own decisions, the independence to do what she wanted, when she wanted, the space to stretch out in her double bed, the strength to carry her own bags, the money to pay for her own dinner, and the intelligence to construct complete sentences. And so she vowed to continue being the sole ruler of her own kingdom and to love every second of her blissfully free, unshackled life. Then she put on her slippers, had some sushi, watched some Friends and lived happily ever after.