Being in the midst of losing weight is like being a mad scientist. There's so much zeal and exertion and obsession involved, you'd think you were ensconced in a laboratory, surrounded by test tubes and pinging machines, curing terrible diseases or inventing wacky machines. But really, beneath the white coat and unsexy glasses, you're just working on the All New SuperAmazing Fantastical BODY Project™!
I feel so protective of my Project. I get cranky when things stop me from working on it, or when I stop me from working on it. I've spent the last week in a cloud of snot, phlegm and fatigue, the novelty of which quickly wore off and was replaced by guilt. GUILT for taking time off work, GUILT for skipping the gym, GUILT for sleeping and eating too much toast. What percentage of my brain is wasted on guilty thoughts? Must get the boys in the Math department to tell me that one.
Anyway, last night I was still unwell but convinced every 60-something kilos I've lost would crawl out of a lard lake and re-attach to my body IF I didn't resume work on my Project, ie. get back to the gym. So I did. It was a stupid move. It was a 45-minute Body Jam class, and I could barely shuffle my way though it. I should have walked out but here was my demented logic: I was just about the biggest person in the room, and if I left the class, people would think, Hey tubby! YOU CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH! I mean, The Class!
How stupid is that? In the 3+ years I've been gymming, I realise that noone really gives a shit about what anyone else is doing. Everyone's there for their own bodies. Still, my paranoia was sufficient for me to lurch my way through my class despite limbs that felt like lead and a pounding head. I should have listened to my body, stayed home and went to bed early.
Another facet of the weight loss/Mad Professor analogy is the secretive nature of it all. If anyone sneaks into the lab and tries peeking under the white sheet, well! Just watch me freak out! Noone's supposed to look at my precious invention until it's perfect! Perfect, I say!
There were two such incidents last Saturday. I stood up after my haircut, and shook off what I hoped was £27 worth of chopped locks. My stylist took off my cape, looked me up and down and smiled, "Are you losing weight? Your pants are absolutely huge on you!". I blushed, secretly pleased that she had noticed, especially considering this was only the second time she'd cut my hair, and that was only 5 weeks before. Yet I quickly dismissed it, "Yeah! I spose! Maybe a little bit. But not done yet!"
Then I arrived at work an hour later, one of my colleagues Belfast Bob said, "Have you lost more weight? I can tell ya know" and I said, "I think so. Maybe. Anyway, I'm working on it."
Don't look! Work in progress! Not finished yet!
. . .
Yesterday my lovely boy left for a two-week trip to Canada. The first thing I did when I closed the door behind him was bawl for a good two hours. Not because I am some pathetic git who can't function for two weeks without a man, but because I just didn't like that whole saying goodbye crap. Reality was biting me in the arse – I'm Australian, he's Scottish, and I get kicked out of the country in 12.5 months time. And in that time, I am travelling for at least five weeks, he's away for at least 7, so add that all up it's bugger all time left together. Who knows what's going to happen, I shouldn't even speculate, but it was still a gnawing yucky feeling in my gut, knowing that sooner or later I will have to face up to that.
Oh what a lovesick twit I am. Did I tell you about my raging insecurity, my belief that him being away for two weeks will give him to wake up and realise that I am actually a moron? That I am not worth sticking around for?
You know what's funny about losing a whole stack of weight? Nothing really changes. All that happens is that you lose the thing upon which you used to hang all your neuroses and Issues™. Fat has a shape and a name, it's a tangible thing, a scapegoat, an excuse, a mouldy old sofa so familiar that has an imprint of your arse on it. So once you lose that, you realise you're stuck with your moronic core.
This entry is sponsored by the letters P, M and S.