On Tuesday afternoon I trekked through the rain to the physio's office. I sat in the waiting room and read a surprisingly current issue of an interiors magazine. I'd been absorbed in all the festive things you can do with pine cones for about twenty minutes when one of the therapists came out and asked if I had an appointment.
"Yes, I'm here to see Mr P at 5.30."
"Mr P is out of the country until Thursday."
"Oh… so he is!"
I'd looked at my diary Tuesday morning, right where it said in big letters PHYSIO 5.30PM in the Thursday space, but closed the diary as I thought, "Righto, physio today."
So I thanked her politely and confirmed my Thursday appointment. Then I stomped towards home in the rain, kicking at leaves, just bloody annoyed at myself. That infuriating, sputtering, pointless outrage when something small but annoying has happened and it's entirely your own fault. Rah rah rah.
And then a thought popped into my head. "Do you know what would make you feel better right now? Chocolate. Go to the shop and buy some CHOCOLATE."
All of a sudden all I could think was chocolatechocolatechocolate. Specifically, a Marks & Spencer Turkish Delight bar. I could feel the little serrations at the edge of the wrapper, the sigh of the paper as you peel it back. And I could feel the chocolate crack as I bit in, my teeth sinking into the pillowy innards; the chocolaty rosy scent in my nostrils.
Whoa. I was shocked by the automatic logic of my brain. Feel cranky = Need Chocolate. The thought just popped up instantly, vivid and urgent; almost a physical reaction. The rational part of me knew I had been successfully counting calories all week and had no intention of blowing it with a choccie bar, but I was surprised that on some level there still lurks this part of me that associates any sort of unpleasant emotion with shoving down something sweet.
Is there any way to stop that kind of reaction? I don't think so. I think it's what you do next that counts. I went home and we made this Spinach Cannelloni as planned. And it tasted alright, except for the spinach part. It was frozen spinach, which I've used a million times for Spinach and Feta pie, but that night it was just a big tangled, tasteless mess.
I wanted to see if Gareth would dare agree with me. "What did you think of that?"
"It was alright. It was… very green."
"Ah ha! I knew it."
"It was kind of chewy. Which would be okay… if I was a cow!" he cackled.
His stomach was growling wildly as we drifted off to sleep later.
"What the hell is going on in there?"
"It's all that grass digesting in my multiple bovine stomachs. I think it's up the fourth one now."
. . .
So, I am staying the hell off the scales for now. Things are going sooo swimmingly this week! I am happily sticking to my plans and eating beautifully so why mess that up by getting on the scale? I just don't want to deal with it for awhile. The numbers have been screwing with my head far too much lately. I know I am doing well and I am happy to gauge my progress by the fit of my trousers for the next wee while. I will get on the first Monday in December and report back to you then. Hurrah!