Losing It

My mad, crazy journey to health and beyond

In sickness and in health

So last week this happened:

Sick

Which of course meant that this happened:

Eat all the things

Which now means that this has happened:

Mr Staypuft

So of course this won’t happen:

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Until a lot more of this:

Lifting weights

And this happens:

Healthy food

So, tune in next week and find out what happens!

 

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No rest for the wicked

What do you get when you train like a motherfucker for weeks and weeks on end, take very few rest days and get very little sleep? Apparently, you get this:

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A weight gain. In fact, not just a weight gain, but ANOTHER weight gain. Second week in a row. That makes 1.3kg I’ve gained in two weeks. It’s almost enough to make me sprint for the oversized scones at Mugg & Bean and start shoving their creamy jammy carby goodness into my face. Thank fuck M&B isn’t open at 5am, because that’s exactly what I might have done if it were. Instead, I had to content myself with eating my caramel oats vigorously, while expanding my already impressive vocabulary of F-bombs. It’s been a wild morning so far.

Jokes aside though, one thing I’ve learned is that if you feel you’re doing everything right, but yet things are still going wrong, you obviously aren’t doing everything right. And apparently increasing your training while decreasing your rest time doesn’t fall under the headline of “doing everything right”. Who knew?

My hatred of sleep has been well documented here, so I’m not going to go into it again. Suffice it to say that I hate sleeping, always have, always will. So the idea of having to sleep more is about as enticing as taking a bath in a tub full of battery acid. FML. But I’m tired of working my ass off only to see gain after gain on the scale – and clearly my body is tired too, which is why it’s apparently trying to get my attention in the most irritating way possible.

What makes it all the more annoying is that I actually took a rest day this week. I needed to, after an awesome birthday party the night before. I even said to myself, ‘Self, you’ve been working so hard, you deserve to take the night off, let your hair down, and have a bit of a party’. So I did, as you can see.

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Which I then followed up with a day of rest, couch, and very little else. So to see a gain after that is just obnoxious in the extreme.

If I’m honest though, I will say that sleep has been very thin on the ground. Usually I average about 4 – 5 hours a night, which I know is less than ideal. And Sunday was just a complete balls-up, having gotten home from Mumford at 2, and then getting up three hours later for an 11km trail run in the searing heat. It wasn’t one of my better ideas, I’ll give you that. So I can totally understand my body screaming at me, “BITCH IF YOU DON’T SIT DOWN I WILL CUT YOU!”  Point taken. You don’t have to be so hostile about it though.

So for the next week, I’ll make myself a promise. I promise to sleep more. I promise to take a rest day. I promise not to push myself beyond the ridiculous. And I promise to CHILL THE FARK OUT! Hopefully by being a little more relaxed, and a little less obsessive, I’ll start to see the progress I’m looking for. There’s a lesson in everything, and today I’ve learned mine.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to watch some stuff I taped on my Explora. Don’t hate the player, hate the game 😉

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Keep on moving, the time will come one day

I really struggled with finding something positive to write today. In fact, I’ve just spent the past half hour watching 90s music videos on YouTube, procrastinating. Which is where my headline came from. Thank you to Jazzie B and the gang.  

Why is today’s blog such a hard one? Because after seeing this on the scale last week, I was absolutely CONVINCED that today I would finally, FINALLY, move down into the 70s, after having had a full-on relationship with the 80s for the past ten months:

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So when I got on the scale this morning and saw this instead:

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You can imagine how devastated I was. Usually I only allow myself to feel the emotion of a weigh-in, good or bad, for the amount of time I’m actually standing on the scale. As soon as I step back onto the bathroom floor, it’s out of my mind and back to work. But this morning was a little different. Instead of immediately going to my room and changing into my gym gear, I sat on the (closed) toilet seat for a few minutes, taking some deep breaths and trying not to cry. I also made a mental note to put my underwear back on before doing that again, because that toilet seat was COLD.

It’s one thing to see a gain on the scale when you’ve been sitting on the couch stuffing your face all week. Sure it’s never fun seeing that you’ve picked up weight, but you know you deserved it. Pizza isn’t a food group, and neither are chocolate brownies (more’s the pity). But when you’ve been training like a motherfucker 6 days out of 7, hitting your macros spot on every day, and saying no to all manner of sweet treats and cocktails and calorie-laden awesomeness, having the scale tell you that you’ve gained weight is like a slap in the face. And a cruel one at that.

A few years ago, seeing that would have sent me straight back to bed, then straight to McDonald’s as soon as they opened. Because fuck it, if being healthy won’t help you lose weight, then who gives a shit anymore. Might as well be unhealthy and enjoy life, right? Thankfully, those days are behind me. I might not like seeing the scale go up, but I’m made of sterner stuff now. So I went and put my gym gear on, had my oats and coffee, watched QI, and then banged out some back squats like a boss. Because that’s what I do now. And it’s better than being knee-deep in Big Macs.

I won’t lie though, I’m not exactly feeling full of the joys of spring right now. It’s times like these where I honestly and truly question if I’m ever going to reach my goal weight. As soon as I think I’m making progress, it’s like I take two steps back. It is massively, hair-pullingly frustrating, and I am exhausted.

Thankfully, I’m not quite at the ‘fuck this shit, where the McD’s menu’ stage quite yet. But I have to carry on somehow though. Which is why, instead of focusing on what I haven’t achieved this past week, I’m going to focus on what I have. Such as:

  1. I ran my fastest 5K EVER on Saturday!

Parkrun result

  1. I fit into a dress that I haven’t been able to wear since I was TWENTY YEARS OLD!

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3. I ran (ignore the mileage on the watch) 12.5km WITHOUT STOPPING ONCE!

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  1. I was in a photoshoot for Women’s Health! No pics now, but wait for the May issue. I am planking like a rock star!
  2. I look better naked! Although I’m not showing you any pictures of that. You’ve already seen me in my underwear – I have to draw the line somewhere. You’ll just have to use your imagination 😉
  3. Finally, and most importantly, I’m blessed with the support of family, friends, and Facebook groups, reminding me why I’m doing this, reminding how far I’ve come, and reminding why I still need to keep going. There are too many of you to mention, which is a reward in itself, and I thank each and every one of you.
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Mostly this is what they keep reminding me about.

So that’s what’s going to get me through the next week, and that’s what I’m going to be focusing on, rather than my relationship to gravity at 4:45am this morning. Although I’m still giving the scale the finger every time I walk past the bathroom. Because that’s what it deserves.

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Seven days

No, this is not a Craig David song. No-one was making love by Wednesday, and on Thursday, and Friday and Saturday. Although we did chill on Sunday.

Monday: Taking a break from civilisation. Up early to train. Healthy meals all day. Work till 9:30pm. TV. Bed. Watch stuff on laptop. Know I should really be going to sleep. Watch more stuff anyway.

Tuesday: Up early to train. Healthy meals all day. Work till 7pm. TV. Bed. Watch stuff on laptop. Big Fat Quiz of the Year cracks me up. Even though I’ve seen every episode 3 times now.

Wednesday: Up early to train. Healthy meals all day. Work till 4:30pm. Watch The Cutting Edge. For the millionth time. TOEPICK! Bed. Watch stuff on laptop again. Starting to develop a crush on Jimmy Carr. May need to return to civilisation sooner than I thought.

Thursday: Up early to train. Healthy meals all day. Work till 5:30pm. TV. Bed. Watch stuff on laptop. I like Noel Fielding’s hair. And his dress. That was a weird sentence.

Friday: Up early to train. Healthy meals all day. Work, then return to civilisation. TV. Bed. Watch stuff on laptop. Wishing the year would hurry up and end so they would bring out a new episode of Big Fat Quiz of the Year. Obsession with Richard Ayoade is now at an 11 out of 10.

Saturday: Up at 4:30am. What in the name of all that is holy??? Eat breakfast half-asleep. Drive 500 miles (ok, 50km) through to Landskroon Winery. Not to drink. To run. Because I am mad.

Landskroon

Run 10km in 1:16. Not quite last, but almost. Eh, don’t care – was a beautiful run. Realise that left arm is in an immense amount of pain, with almost zero mobility. Drive home, shower. Carefully. Drive through to hair salon. Changing gears is excruciating. Yay for me. Sit in chair and wonder if everyone looks revolting in those awful hairdressing capes, or if it’s just me. How come I never noticed I had so many chins??? Drive home. Ow. OW! Healthy lunch, watch tv, take drugs given to me by pharmacist. Drape hot pack over arm. Pray for slow death. Realise that getting dressed for function later will be almost impossible. Call friend over to help. Drink bubbly, get dressed very slowly. Bubbly helps. So does friend. Call Uber. Thank fuck I don’t have to drive. Get to Pigalle (fancy!) for freelance Christmas party. Have super awesome time with friends!

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Eat healthy food. DRINK ALL THE DRINKS! Move on to some other clubs. Not feeling it. Some weird-ass dude is trying to feel my face. Dimly recall there’s some sort of song about that. Realise that when I am in a club surrounded by 25-year-olds on E, it’s probably time to leave. Pour myself into an Uber and go home to pass out. Getting undressed doesn’t hurt quite as badly. Thank you alcohol.

Sunday: Why am I asleep on my couch? Remember moving there in the middle of the night. Don’t question it. Headache. Arm still hurts like a mother bitch. Yay Myprodol and Rehidrat! Healthy breakfast. Shower, Cavendish, Mockingjay Part 2. Biltong snacks. Home after decent movie and appalling Point Break trailer. Crave pizza. Have a chicken and salad wrap instead. I would high five myself but it’s too much effort. So traumatised by previous trailer, watch real (and only!) Point Break to calm myself down. Snooze on couch. Wake up to Keanu yelling “I AM AN FBI AGENT!” Yes you are baby, yes you are. Skype parents, watch random crap on TV. End off day with a healthy dinner and half of Ghost. Apparently I’m in a Patrick Swayze kind of mood. He would never put me in a corner.

Monday: Up and at ’em, go go GO! Drive through to Clifton, climb a fucking ridiculous amount of stairs (whatever 280 x 14 is). Die.

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Home. Breakfast. Doctor. Cortisone and anaesthetic. Bliss. Work till 6:30pm. Healthy meals all day. Perve new intern on Grey’s. Again. Assessing whether or not this means I am in need of a life. Bed. More Big Fat Quiz. Wonder if Eddie Izzard is straight or gay. Google. Straight apparently. You learn something new about transvestites every day.

Tuesday: Step on scale.

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Realise that after a week of regular training, healthy eating, positive thinking and doing a lot of what I love, I have managed to lose 3.7kg in one week. Because I am a fucking legend.

And that, my friends, is balance.

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Things I am thankful for

1. I am thankful that when this happened to my car, nothing happened to me.

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2. I am thankful for friends who talk me out of making potentially big mistakes.

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3. I am thankful for George Ezra concerts and picnic food and catching up with friends.

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4. I am thankful for fabulousness, and glitz and glamour. And six-packs.

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5. I am thankful for people who have gone out of their way to help me, from good friends, to acquaintances, to people I barely even know. Whoever said Capetonians are stuck-up and snobby and aloof was clearly smoking some low-grade crack.

6. I am thankful for my father organising cars and test drives and back-up plans all the way from Mauritius.

7. I am thankful for my sister and mother checking in on me everyday to make sure I haven’t topped myself out of frustration and boredom.

8. I am thankful for messages of support and kindness and cheerfulness.

9. I am thankful that my favourite band in the whole world is FINALLY coming to South Africa!!!! (If you don’t have their latest album yet, go out and buy it right now – it is miraculous, lack of banjo notwithstanding.)

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10. And finally I’m glad that a weekend of ups, downs and everything in between had little effect on the scale:

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11. Oh and bonus thankfulness – to Rouge Spa for yet again another fantastic toe makeover, in luscious Orly “Melt Your Popsicle”. Watch out – I’ll do it too.

So much to be thankful for, and so much to look forward to over the coming week. May it be a blessed one.

Thank You

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My wishlist for the rest of 2015

Yes yes I know, you were starting to wonder if I was still alive. Well I’m here – buried under a mountain of work, but here. And since it’s my first time back in a loooong time, I thought I’d inject some positivity into this here place – with a fantabulous wishlist for the rest of the year. Five months and counting. Usually people wait until Christmas to put together their wishlists, but I’ve never been what you’d describe as normal. Also, it’s Christmas in July right now, and since no-one invited me to their big dinner (shame on you) I thought I’d put together this list instead.

  1. I wish to be having these things. Please to be buying for me? I have no money, but I like very much the things.

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  1. I wish tequila didn’t taste so damn good. Seriously, 377 days of no drinking, and it’s like I never left. Oops.

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  1. I wish I could remember the last hour of my birthday party. Double oops.

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  1. I WISH MATTHEW HADN’T FUCKING MOVED TO FUCKING DUBAI.

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  1. I wish I hadn’t put this red race shirt on backwards when I did the 11km Knysna Featherbeds trail run. I look freaking retarded.

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  1. I wish I was able to say to myself, ‘It’s ok, have a cheat meal’, and then not stress about it for weeks afterwards. Will I ever be able to eat like a normal person again?
  1. I wish I had enjoyed this race more. Bastille Day Trail Run, 15km. I loathed every minute of it. At least the pic looks good though.

Bastille Day

  1. I wish there was alcohol in this glass. Turns out that after more than an entire year of not drinking, I still can’t stop at one. Fucking hell. So the sobriety continues until my Run the Berg race in October. And then we’ll reassess.

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  1. I wish I could tell you how AMPED I am that a year after my very first trail run at Paul Cluver Wine Estate, I completed the same course OVER AN HOUR FASTER than last year! 60 minutes bitch – count them!

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  1. I wish I had this guy’s phone number. I’ve made celibacy a life choice going forward (genuine) but I would let this guy shoplift the pooty in a nanosecond. Jesus wept is he hot.

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  1. I wish I could do pedicures as well as the awesome folks at Rouge Day Spa. Most of the time I can barely touch my toes, so I love that I have someone to take care of them for me. Look how pretty – all lovingly wrapped up in Orly Rock It. And rock it, I do.

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  1. I wish this had gone a little better this morning. But it’s ok. After two weeks of parties, festivals, dinners, lunches and what what, I’m back on track and I’m ready to kick butt for the next phase of my journey. Bring it on life, let’s see what you’ve got!

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  1. And lastly, I wish I could say I was sorry for ending off with another one of these. But I’m not. Brock understands.

Brock 2

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Frankie say relax

Frankie

Weekends. People on health journeys are always on about them. Too much cake, not enough salad, too much couch, not enough gym. I don’t have this problem. Mainly because I have no idea what a weekend is. When you work for yourself, the concept of two consecutive days off ceases to exist. Instead, weekends are merely days with more traffic than usual. Which is, quite frankly, really irritating. Can you all just please fuck off and go home so I can get my errands done in a jiff and go back to work??? Ta.

While it would be heaven on earth to actually have a day of free time on the odd occasion, the fact that I am busy as fuck all day every day on Saturdays and Sundays has actually been a blessing in terms of my health journey. I don’t have time to be bored and mmm let’s see what’s in the fridge. I don’t have time to laze around on the couch and mmm what can I eat. And I don’t have time to mooch around the mall and mmm let’s see what the new Burger King special tastes like. So while working on the weekends is a gigantic pain in the ass, it’s actually helped me develop a smaller ass. Believe it or not.

Working all weekend every weekend does take its toll though, which is why lately I’ve been making a concerted effort to enjoy more free time and less WORK WORK WORK YOU LAZY BITCH. And wouldn’t you know it, I’ve actually been having a lot more fun! Who would have thought.

I’ve been able to do things like:

Enjoy a fabulously luxurious stay at the divine Urban Chic Boutique Hotel on Long Street in town.

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Go for cocktails (YES THEY ARE VIRGIN COCKTAILS. Before you ask. Because someone always does.)

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Enjoy a sublime dinner at Pepenero, one of my favourite restaurants.

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Go trail running (and almost die in the process).

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Have a superiffic lunch after said trail run.

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Take in some local flavour (and local coffee) and the Hout Bay market (followed by a little coffee time at home).

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Enjoy time with friends, and with the gigantic seats at Ster Kinekor Prestige (go Avengers!).

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Treat myself to some mouthwatering (and completely within my macros) meals.

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And enjoy an absolutely decadent mani (Orly Faint Heart) and pedi (Orly It’s Up To Blue) at the always awesome Rouge Day Spa.

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Just because it's winter doesn't mean your tootsies have to be dull.

Just because it’s winter doesn’t mean your tootsies have to be dull.

Much more relaxing than a pub. Much less Myprodol needed afterwards too.

Much more relaxing than a pub. Much less Myprodol needed afterwards too.

So yes, it’s been a wonderfully relaxing, pampering, fabulous past weekend. I’m starting to see what all you 9 to 5 people are on about with your two full days of free time. And I’m thinking of starting to make it a habit!

Hang on, hang on, there’s something I’m forgetting. I’m sure there was something else I did recently… Oh wait, I remember! Lose a fuckton of weight.

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Seems like taking life a little easier has benefits beyond good food, friends and conversation. Because good golly Miss Molly, after this morning’s weigh-in, I only have 16.9kg to go until I reach my goal weight. WOOOOOOOOHOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!

So I’m going to go off and have myself a little celebration – you all go off and have yourselves a fabulous Tuesday!

Kiss 1

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Some pretty searching questions

So last week I bored everyone senseless by banging on about how restless and drinky I was feeling. Yay for me! That’s why this week I thought it was important to start questioning myself and where I am at this stage in my journey, so I can see a clear path forward.

Congratulations, you have reached the question and answer portion of this exam. You’ve been feeling all AAARRRRGGGGG for the past few weeks – let’s take a look at where you actually are.

1. Why Nicola, are you wearing smaller pants?

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Why yes, yes I am.

2. Why Nicola, are you finally able to fit into the smallest pairs of jeans in your cupboard?

Jeans 1

Jeans 2

Why yes, yes I am.

3. Why Nicola, did you get through the equivalent of a half marathon this past weekend?

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Why yes, yes I did (Barely).

4. Why Nicola, are those collarbones I see?

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Why fuck me sideways, yes they are.

5. Why Nicola, what’s that on your toes?

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Why, it’s a fabulous Rouge Spa pedicure in Orly “What’s the Password”, thanks for noticing!

6. Why Nicola, did you crush your weigh-in this morning?

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WHY YES, YES I FUCKING DID!!!!!!!

7. Why Nicola, are you going to be celebrating this?

You bet your tight little ass I am!

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So, bring on the 80s – I’m ready for them. Bad hair, lumo clothes, awesome music, can’t wait! That makes it 45.8kg down, and just 19.2kg until I reach my goal weight. High five for awesomeness!

High Five

PS: Tell me which comedy show I stole my header from, and you win the prize (no, it’s not Friends, don’t be lazy).

PPS: No Caren, you can’t enter (see, told you I’d mention you!).

16 Comments »

Ants in my pants

Right now I’m supposed to be enjoying a well-deserved post-workout cup of coffee, followed by a bowl of caramel Oatso-Easy, and bacon on toast, over a rerun of The Great British Bakeoff. But I can’t, because Eskom se poes. So I thought I’d blog instead. Yay for dropping R1 200 on a new laptop battery.

It’s been FOREVER since I’ve had time to blog, but don’t worry, you haven’t missed much. I haven’t watched the Bold in years, but I assume Brooke is still sleeping with a member of her family, new Ridge is crap, Taylor’s had more plastic surgery, someone has amnesia, and someone else just came back from the dead, despite being decapitated two years ago. My life’s pretty much the same. Less incest and miraculous resurrections; more ‘same shit, different day’.

I wrote it in a status on Facebook the other day, and I fear it may actually be coming true. I think I’m turning into the world’s most boring person. I haven’t blogged for 4 weeks (or something, too lazy to check), but you have literally missed nothing. Apart from a brief Easter weekend in Knysna, all I’ve been doing is working, coming in last at trail running, and attempting to fit into a stupid pair of jeans with a zipper that resolutely refuses to stay up. (I blame this on poor Mr Price quality, not my stomach.)

The one thing that has changed though, is my attitude. And not for the better. For the first time since I gave up alcohol, this is beginning to feel like work. Not the training part, weirdly enough. That’s going like gangbusters. The eating part and the booze part. All I want to do all day long is shove pizza and lemon meringue pie into my face. And all I want to do all night long is drink like a motherfucker.

This may have something to do with the fact that I’m watching the current series of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills over lunch. (No pants during the day, and tv at lunchtime – don’t you just want to smack me?) All those trashy gals do all day long is drink and swear, which used to be my life as recently as ten months ago. Albeit with fewer diamonds.

No, that’s not the reason. I honestly don’t know what the reason is. All I know is that I feel fidgety, restless. Like I have ants in my pants. (I know that 75% of my day is spent without pants on; the irony is not lost on me.) And I don’t know why. Why now? Why is it that all I can think about is eating junk food, and then bunking off work to go sink a keg of draught beer and throw name in some dubious establishment?

It’s getting harder and harder to resist the siren call of FUCKTHISSHIT, and while I’m just about managing it, it is H.A.R.D. Cuba Gooding Jr says it to Tom Cruise in Jerry Maguire and it’s true. You are hanging on by a very thin thread.

It may be because I’m tired. I average between 4 – 5 hours of sleep a night. My hatred of sleep has been well documented in this blog so I’m not going to bore you with it again. Suffice it to say that I don’t sleep enough, and probably never will.

It may be because my work schedule is unrelenting, with a tsunami of briefs pouring in every day. As an entrepreneur, this is a good thing. As a human being, this is not. Too much work, not enough time; too many headaches, not enough Myprodol.

It may be that this is a natural part of the process. I’ve been “up” for the past ten months. And despite his unnatural fascination with apples, Isaac Newton was right – what goes up, must come down. Perhaps this is a “down” part of my journey, and I just have to grit my teeth and soldier on through.

I literally have no idea what it could be. All I know is that I want to make sweet mouth love to as much junk food as possible, and then wash it down with an ocean of vino. Yes, even though I haven’t had a drink in 304 days, I still crave alcohol. Sorry to burst your bubble.

So I don’t know what’s going on with me, but I do know what I’m going to do. Keep on keeping on. I don’t really have a choice, and I don’t want to go back to wearing my fat pants. I want to wear those stupid freaking pants with the malfunctioning zip (that’s my zipper story and I’m sticking to it). So even though my body is crying out for Lindt Mint Intense, I will feed it chicken stirfry. Even though my soul is crying out for the sweet, sweet fermented nectar of Mexico, I will douse it in water. And even though my mind is saying AAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGG, I will just say, ‘there, there’ and get on with it.

Because it turns out when you do that, you go from this:

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To this, in a week:

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That’s what happens when you harden the fuck up. Now if someone could just get me some kind of cream for the ants/pants situation, everything would be fine.

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One, two, cha-cha-cha

There’s a little dance I do every Tuesday morning in my bathroom. It’s a naked dance but since I do it at 5am with the curtains closed, no-one can see it. (Except the dude across the road with the telescope but he’s cool.) I call this dance ‘The Scale Dance’, and here’s how it goes:

Place scale on special weighing tile.

Stand on scale.

Shuffle a little to make sure you’re not too far forward, too far back, or too over to one side.

Look up.

Breathe.

Pray.

Look down.

Swear.

Get off.

Repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat.

FUCK.

Ok one more repe…  fuckfuckfuckfuck!!

Breathe.

Put clothes on.

Give the scale the finger.

Go smash the hell out of the week.

That’s exactly how the dance went this morning when I got this on the scale:

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Two weeks after getting this on the scale:

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Two weeks of eating right, training like a motherfucker, and staying committed 24 hours a day. Not one single change. Yay for me. But still I gave the scale the finger, and went to gym to go smash it.

That’s not how the scale dance used to go. As recently as a year ago, the scale dance didn’t end with renewed motivation and determination. Instead it either ended with jubilation or angry pizza. Or angry KFC, angry Steers, angry McDonald’s, angry drinking – choose your poison. The scale used to be the place where my motivation lived or died, where the seat of my emotions lay, where my entire existence was either validated, or made to feel completely worthless, pointless and shameful.

Extraordinary what a few bits of metal and batteries can reduce you to. Where just one step can either make you feel like the king of the world, or the layer of squelchy algae lying underneath the bottom of the barrel. And in both cases, how fucking sad.

So when I started my 100 days of sobriety last year and changed my attitude to drinking, I decided I was going to change my attitude to the scale as well. I wasn’t going to let a stupid mechanical device judge me, or validate my progress. I was going to let it measure my relationship to gravity, and that was that. I wasn’t going to give it any power over my emotions, I wasn’t going to use it to measure my worth, and most of all, I wasn’t going to let it influence my journey in any way, regardless of whether the news was good or bad. The scale wasn’t going to be the be-all and end-all of my existence anymore. It was going to be a tool, and that was that.

It wasn’t easy to begin with. The first time the scale started playing silly buggers with me, I immediately wanted to jump off and go eat a burger. How dare it tell me that after a week of living healthily, I’d achieved nothing???? I was going to go and show it – I was going to EAT!! Now who’s the stupid one?

But this time I didn’t angry eat. I groaned, rolled my eyes, said “FUCK THIS SHIT” out loudly (scaring the guy with the telescope) and then I just got on with it. And the next week the scale showed a loss.

That’s pretty much how it’s been since then. Some good weigh-ins, some bad. And every time I step on the scale, I get stronger every time I step off. I wouldn’t say I throw a party for one whenever it shows a plateau, or worse, a gain, but I only allow myself to feel BLAAAARG for as long as I’m standing on it. The second I get my feet back on solid ground, it’s back to work. Because that’s the only way to show that bitch who’s boss.

Linear

I’ve been told by everyone at Evo, till they’re blue in the face, that this is not a linear journey. And you only have to look at my weigh-ins to see the truth of that. At the moment, my weight loss follows a very consistent pattern:

Week 1: Lose 1kg

Week 2: Lose 1kg

Week 3: Lose 100g

Week 4: Gain 400g

Week 5: Lose 300g

And then it starts all over again. So essentially I’m losing 2kg every five weeks. Twelve months ago, this would have crucified me. There would have been angry eating on an epic scale. I’m talking about KFC branches being sold out countrywide. Today, it bums me out a little, but I just get on with it. I have a goal, and I don’t have energy to waste worrying about what a heartless piece of metal has to say about it.

Plus when you think about what the ultimate aim of this all is – HEALTH, pure health, inside and out – stressing over a scale seems superficial and pathetic at best. Who gives a fuck if you gained 300g or lost 200g or what the hell ever? You gave your body a week of fabulous food, mobility, activity, rest, awesomeness. You ate well, you lived well, you treated yourself with honour and respect. Why do you need a scale to validate that? Surely you should know that it was a successful week, regardless of Isaac Newton’s opinion? If not, you’ve got bigger problems than a few kilos of extra fat.

It took me a long time to realise that, but I finally clicked. And now I don’t follow a wellness journey for the sole purpose of losing weight. Yes, obviously that’s part of it. But now the main reason I work so hard, push so hard, fight so hard is for me. I don’t just want to lose weight, I want to be happy, healthy, and have a better quality of life, love and laughter. Isn’t that what we were put on this earth for in the first place?

So when I see a weigh-in like this morning’s, I don’t get despondent. Instead I think of how two years ago, I was 135kg with a blood pressure of 150/110, cholesterol of over 7, and blood sugar so high I was a type 2 diabetic. And how as of today, I’m 91.7kg, with a blood pressure of 110/75, cholesterol of 4.2, and blood sugar so low that the doctor told me to go home and eat something (3.6 non-fasting if you must know).

And then I breathe out, step off the scale, and get back to fucking work.

Cha cha

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