The Amazing Adventures of Dietgirl

Why gardening is like weight loss

While shoving a few seeds in pots and washing bugs from the crevice of lettuce leaves hardly qualifies me as a gardener, I'm finding this growing malarkey so addictive and relaxing. With all that learning and bumbling error, gardening is a great metaphor for life. But I know most people come here for the lard busting chat, so it's time for another episode of... Dodgy Weight Loss Analogies!

It's best to start small
I nearly went beserk on my first visit to the garden shoppe - OMG obscure berries and fancy tomatoes and potatoes with girly names! We should get chickens too! And keep a goat in the bathroom!

It was just like the old dieter's mindset: Must lose 2 kilos, revolutionise lifetime of crappy eating habits and do 5 gym visits by Sunday!

So I slowed down - starting out small meant less chance of falling into a defeated heap two weeks later. I internetted "easy plants for absolute beginners" and settled on salad leaves and herbs for my debut.

Knowledge is power
If you're out of your depth you can't be afraid to ask for help. In this case it's been my father-in-law, gardening blogs and "The Kitchen Gardener" by Alan Titchmarsh - a very straightforward book that explains the basics in gentle, encouraging tones. Whenever a plant does something weird or looks close to death our mantra is, "Ask Titchy!" The good thing is, the more you learn the more confident you become and eventually/hopefully you'll get bold enough to test your own thoughts and ideas.

You gotta get dirrrrty
You could shove seeds in the ground then admire a la distance while hoping for the best. But if you want sexy results you have to get mucky. You have to nuture your babies, water them regularly and patrol for snails. As with lard-busting, it all boils down to time, sweat and toil.

From little things big things grow
At first it looks so pointless and insignificant - a broken pot, some dirt and £1 packet of seeds. Then you spy a tiny hopeful shoot pushing through. Then suddenly a few weeks later you're greeted with a lush spray of poncy salad leaves. Just like when you start your healthy quest, a brisk walk and forsaking Pop Tarts for porridge can feel like it will never amount to anything. But give it time and patience and those small efforts sprout into bigger rewards.

Mind your own business
It's easy to get Garden Envy when the neighbours are retired and have more time and fancy equipment and fancy flowers and whatnot and all you have is a rusty spade and a half-dead strawberry cutting. I was no stranger to lard-busting jealousy either - She's losing weight faster than me! She's got a personal trainer! She doesn't have to work! Rah rah rah!

But you have to focus on your own situation and budget and channel that energy into making the most of the tools you have to hand. You might have a second-hand DVD instead of a personal trainer... but you still have YOU and your own imagination.

PERFECTIONISM IS FUTILE
Holy moly this is a lesson I need to learn. So often I'm frozen into inaction for fear being undeserving or doing something wrong or rubbishly. But the gardening is showing me that it doesn't bloody matter if you cock up. It's more fun to let go of the outcome and plunge your hands into the soil. What's the worst that could happen? The plant might cark it but you only lose a few hours of your time or a few pennies for the seedling. Failure is your friend. Embrace ineptitude!

Some things are beyond your control
You can be diligent with your diet or pamper the hell out of your plants, but sometimes the weather turns nasty or a pheasant craps on your head or a snail gnaws away at your resolve. But at least you're DOIN' IT, baby.

Crazy Eyes and Cold Comfort

While in Australia at Chez Mothership, we came across a bulging folder of all the "stories" I'd written in kindergarten.

It was clear as a five year old I was already disgruntled with my appearance. I had very short red hair and hated it so much. As if my inability to hold a pencil properly wasn't already holding me back, but cropped ginger hair too? Dude.

I was spewingly jealous of my follically-blessed classmates. There were at least a dozen stories about my long blonde friend Marnie. This is Marnie, I would write. Marnie has long blonde hair. Marnie is very pretty. I like Marnie. I love Marnie.

Holy crap, run for your life Marnie!

In this story I daydreamed on an Ideal Me, all flaxen locks and pretty bows.

Sometimes I would attempt a more honest depiction of my appearance, as in the April 1983 masterwork, "The world is big and we live on it".

Although if you look closely you can see the madness in the eyes.

Another highlight of our Australian jaunt was the consumption of this here chocolate thickshake at Gus' Cafe in Canberra. There must be half a pound of ice cream in there! Just wrapping your paws around that frosty metal cup feels like home.

I'd already had a thickshake at the magnificent Paragon Cafe in Goulburn but I had to squeeze in one more in before heading to the airport. It tasted all the sweeter because The Mothership, Rhiannon and Gareth were there too... the first time the four of us had been in the same place since I introduced the future son-in-law on Mum's 2004 Scottish tour. I think she can actually understand what he's saying now.

How do you fight cravings? - DG by Request

Cravings are best fought off with a stick. Preferably a big one, with metal spikes all over it.

The dictionary says a craving is, "an intense, urgent, or abnormal desire or longing."

That doesn't necessarily sound like a bad thing. I like intensity; I love to long. But your questions have been about the food-related cravings - the ones that possess your brain and make you want to eat way more than you need to.

Personally I've found that prevention is the best cure. As with many things, the key is to know thyself and be prepared...

(You know I really squirm writing this stuff sometimes. I mean what a lucky western world dilemma to have; the struggle not to eat too much food. Crikey.)

... It's much easier if I don't give the cravings a chance to start. This takes a lot of planning and forethought.

My appetite is a demanding toddler; it's first words were I want. It likes to throw itself down on a supermarket floor and make a scene. My brain is the appetite's weary mother. She carries a Handbag of Anticipation, bulging with tricks and treats and distractions. She tries to be ready for any stunt the little monkey might pull.

It all starts with breakfast. If I don't get that right I screw up the whole day. During the week I don't eat until I feel the first rumbles of hunger; between 10-11 AM. If I eat first thing as convention dictates, I'm munchy again by 10. So I figured I may as well wait until I'm properly hungry in the first place. A nice bonus is that this is the time when colleagues tend to make tea and open the biscuit tin. If I'm tucking into my breakfast then that's one Biscuit Battle that I don't have to worry about.

The breakfast itself must be good and satisfying. Right now I'm running on porridge/oatmeal. I zap it in the microwave before I leave the house and put it in a wee Thermos flask, so it's still hot when I eat it a couple of hours later. I pour it into the lid/cup with some tinned pears then sprinkle it with 10g muscovado sugar and 20g of almond butter, then stir it all up so it's nice and melty and dessert-y.

I could be sensible and just have the porridge and pears, but the extra 160 calories for the sugar and almond butter are well spent. That "hit" of caramelly sweetness and crunchy saltiness, is enough to keep me happy. I can get on with my work and ignore those chocolates sitting three feet from my desk that someone bought back from vacation.

I generally eat a late lunch, around 2 - 2.30PM, that way I've only got 2.5 - 3 hours to get through until home time (how bloody sad does that sound!?). If I make it a good one - last nights leftovers, a really interesting salad, or a baked potato with yummy toppings - then I'll cruise through with no urge to visit the biscuit tin or vending machine.

But as another layer of prevention I've always got snacks if I need them in a range of tastes and textures - savoury (a Babybel cheese), sweet (fruit or a cereal bar), crunchy/sweet (oatcakes with banana) and so on. So if I do start hankering for something I have all these levels of negotiation at my fingertips.

Dinner requires just as much thought. It works best if I plan a week in advance - what's happening this week? What evenings will I be out or working late? How energetic will I feel?

If I know I'm going to be tired and crabbit (which is 95% of the time at present) then I pick the easiest yet most satisfying meals. For example, tonight we are having these lovely huevos rancheros a la Smitten Kitchen. Easy to make, healthy enough with sufficient Delicious Factor to be looked forward to throughout the day.

If you don't have Food Issues that must sound so pathetic, but today sometime between 3 and 5PM I know I will think, "I can't be arsed going to Spinning, maybe I'll go straight home and stop into the shop for a wee bag of Kettle Chips". But since I am organised for once, I will be able to talk to myself: "Whoa there! You have huevos rancheros coming up! Melty cheesy goodness awaits. Go forth and spin!"

Evenings are another tough cookie; the post-dinner wilderness hours. Again, planning a satisfying dinner helps kill that off. If I make a "Communist dinner" as Gareth calls them - you know the more diet-y kind of dinners like stir fries that are very light and vegetabley - I try to make sure I've got something ready for when the kitchen-roaming feeling kicks in - a small chocolate bar, an individual portion of Nutella, etc etc. Anticipate, anticipate, anticipate.

If I think about it honestly, aside from when I'm pre-menstrual, most of my "cravings" are because I've let myself go too long between meals; or I'm stressed or cranky and convinced that food will make it better. It's when I've pulled back too far on calories and/or flavour in my general everyday eating, so it feels like I'm missing out on something. When I take the time to plan meals that soothe and satisfy my many teeth (sweet tooth, savoury tooth, sour tooth etc etc etc) and plan yummy things into my calories, then I don't feel so obsessed by food. The cravings don't have a chance to build.

So in summary this is what I find helpful:

• Know your moods and vulnerable times and try to anticipate/plan around them
• Plan meals that focus on satisfaction just as much as nutrition
• When a craving hits, try to listen to your body and figure out what's really going on
• Talk to yourself like a loony, all day long
• Accept that some days none of the above will work and you'll scoff everything...

(Like last week there were Viscount biscuits at work [the UK's noble attempt at a Mint Slice]. I did the talking to myself thing and chose the Healthy Option oatcakes on my desk. But then I ate three sodding Viscounts as well. Why oh why. Reboot computer, try again tomorrow. Pfft.)

... but that's cool as long as you move on as soon as possible.

As always the key is getting to know yourself and finding out what works for you. A spoonful of sugar in the morning might prevent my cravings, but it might trigger you to eat rubbish all day. It's taken me eight years to realise what works for me, with lots of failure along the way. And now that I reckon I've figured it out, I struggle every single day to actually put it into practice.

But it's worth the effort and almost fun putting yourself under the microscope, studying your habits and patterns. Once you know the beast you're dealing with, it's easier to work out how to tame it.

See also: Tricks and Treats - Guest post on Limes & Lycopene from last year

Half Man, Half Beast

I felt a strange and pathetic sense of mourning the other day. I was feeling stressed about things so went pacing the aisles at Marks & Spencer, looking for the Perfect Thing to eat. I know I've written about this desperate feeling before. Picking up cheeses and cakes and putting them down again; flipping through the chocolate bars like old vinyl.

I ended up stomping home empty-handed and annoyed, realising there was nothing there that would actually make me feel good or change anything. I think this is what I was trying to get at with that Zombie Eating entry about the hot fudge sundae. Sometimes I miss that feeling of oblivion and escape and just not giving a shit about anything in the world as I stuffed down too much food. It's like a crappy old boyfriend that you once couldn't quit, then you finally sever the ties... then years later you see him down the street and realise the old magic is gone. You know it's for the best but you still feel a little sad that you don't have that source of thrills anymore.

Anyone else feel like that sometimes? Put me out of my misery here!

. . .

I can't remember on which blog I read a great entry about the perils of spending more time blogging about being healthy than actually doing the healthy stuff. Like sitting on the couch writing about exercise while mice nibble at your dumbells. Was that your blog? Sorry for my scatty brain!

Either way, you got me thinking that I needed less talk and more action, hence I've been a bit quiet. More soup making and further attempts to restore my fitness to pre-New York levels. Meanwhile I've written a couple of new entries on my non-fat blog about the Halloween weekend. Woohoo!

Happy Voting Day, America! The world writhes in anticipation.

Sundae Bloody Sundae

One Friday night I was in the queue at McDonalds, gawking up at the menu board. Where are the caramel sundaes? Surely they still have the caramel sundaes!

I'd barely drank two inches of wine but that's all it took. One minute I was there in the pub yapping away, and the next I was mumbling my goodbyes and heading for the Golden Arches in a trance. I could almost feel the ridges of the plastic cup in my hand, the flimsy spoon clonking against my teeth; the hot goo of the goods on my tongue.

I hadn't eaten a Macca's sundae for about five years - not because I'd gone all righteous and Spurlock about the place, but more that I'd cracked my thrice weekly habit and moved on to other vices. So it was strange that the swirly dessert popped into my head. It appeared right after a pang of panic and claustrophobia. Sometimes I still mildly freak out in social situations, and get an overwhelming urge to run and revert to hermit mode. On some level I still connect escape with food.

People talk about comfort eating or emotional eating but what about ZOMBIE EATING? I've found myself at the Cookie Table at work, staring down at the crumbs on my chest and thinking, What the hell happened there!? The feet and hands and mouth took over before the brain could make the connection between receiving the stressful email and grabbing the biscuits.

Other times I've been glassy-eyed in line at a coffee shop, fixated on the idea of my hand wrapped around a hot cardboard cup of overpriced beverage to soothe an undefined troubled feeling. Then I'll take the first sip and come back to earth... Shit! What did I do that for!?

Back at McDonalds, I was jolted out of my reverie by the dulcet tones of a lady customer, "Arrriiiight hen, gis a Big Mac meal wi' Diet Coke!"

I took in the spotty lad behind the till and the swaying drunks in the queue. Fark! How the bloody hell did I get here?

I left, walked home in the rain and watched telly.

Most times I have the ability to stop, tune in and realise I'm just stressed or anxious or bored or needing to pull a Greta Garbo - and therefore not shove something unnecessary in my gob. But sometimes I don't even register that I'm feeling anything at all. It happens so fast and mindlessly that I don't wake up in time.

Any other Zombies out there?

Note to self: Caramel sundaes are called toffee sundaes in the UK :)

Full of Lassies

Today was a bit of a bastard day at work, I have to say. I got in at 8AM with the hope of getting a large mother of a task done by the time everyone else arrived, but it ended up taking me until FIVE PEE EM. Magically that was when Gareth called to say he was off to the shops for a beer and a bag o' crisps, and did I require any Friday night supplies of a brown and cocoa-ish nature? I gratefully ordered the usual small bar of G&B's.

"The chocolate aisle was full of lassies," he reported when I got home. "All these lassies in business suits, staring up at the chocolates and looking completely knackered."

MY PEOPLE!

. . .

My heart is thundering in anticipation of tomorrow's eight miler - hopefully it will be the first outing of the heart rate monitor! If I can figure out which buttons to press.

I'd initially ordered a men's HRM because I thought the lady one would look too lost and dainty on my wrist. Plus the bloke colours were better. Maybe I've got a bit of Forearm Dysmorphia, you know that well-known condition. It arrived last week and it looked huge and bloody ridiculous. I knew it would bug the crap out of me so I sent it back and ordered the poncy pastel lady model instead.

So far I've managed set the date and time and enter my weight and height! The next step is to read the manual. I haven't tried on the chest strap thingy yet. There was an automatic nervous flutter when I took it out of the box, wondering if it would fit around me. Will that feeling ever go away!?

Thanks a bazillion for all your comments on the last entry; I really liked your suggestions to spice up the long walks with audio books. Heard any good ones lately? What's appropriate for a couple hours of exercise? Crime and Punishment?

Hope you have a good weekend comrades. I'll be tuning into the London Marathon on Sunday to have a vicarious blub at all that sweat and personal triumph! Good luck YP and anyone else out there!

Flakes and Flaming Cheeks

Tonight I was typing away like a demon when suddenly! We had a power cut. I lost my blog entry.

I passed the time by opening up a bunch of those sample sachets you get in magazines. First there was a Body Sculpting Lotion which I slapped on my chest then waited for the magic to happen. Beneath the candlelight it all looked quite promising but now with the lights back on I can report... it's a dud! Boo!

Next up was the Anti Wrinkle Day Cream which I daringly applied at 10PM. MISTAKE! Pain! Flames! What do they put in that stuff? If by Anti Wrinkle they mean Erode An Entire Layer Of Epidermis well then, they have succeeded here.

Anyway after all that excitement I'm having trouble remembering what I was writing about before.

I would have mentioned our BORING walk today. I am not entirely loving the Moonwalk training, I have to confess. This is despite the sparkling company I've had on my walks. It's not so much my body that's the problem but my tiny little brain. I like my exercise in short, sharp bursts of sweat and adrenaline and discomfort and possibly violence, e.g. Spinning or kickboxing. Anything longer than an hour and the mind wanders. This doesn't happen so much with the hill walking because you are too busy thinking about forthcoming sandwiches and/or how much PAIN you are in. But with the Moonwalk, you're training to walk 26.2 miles of a flat-ish course through the streets of Edinburgh, so you need to train on the same kind of urban terrain.

Gareth came along this afternoon and after half a mile of boring cycle path he said, "Whoa, this is boring isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Why did you make me come on such a boring walk?"

"I didn't! I specifically told you I was going on a Boring Walk. You invited yourself!"

"Oh! Is that how it is?"

So we ambled along for six miles arguing about who was the most bored, punching each other on the arm at half-mile intervals because there was nothing better to do. But we kept up a good pace and the air was crisp and bracing after this morning's snowfall (which had melted after ten minutes). It's only ten weeks until the Moonwalk so I shall load some funky tunes on the ol iPod and PLOD ON, baby!

I would also have mentioned how I am beginning to claw my way out of the health/fitness rut I've been in for about... six or seven months now. It has been quite a process. A few weeks ago I had that panicky feeling where it feels like you'll never find that place again where you DON'T think about chocolate every seven seconds. Coincidentally I've had a lot of emails lately of a "Help, I've screwed up royally and fear I'm doomed forever" nature - is there something in the air? So I'll yak more about this in the next entry.

I feel like I've got my focus back now, but two weeks ago I could barely function for thoughts of chocolate. I was making a deliciously healthy curry and gathering all the spices in a wee dish and all I could do was stare at the cinnamon stick with a ridiculous conversation raging in my head:

OH MY that cinnamon stick looks just like a FLAKE. Why must it be a cinnamon stick? Why can't it be a Flake? I could bite into that right now. Even though I don't like Flakes. Except I wouldn't eat it, on principle! Because I can't bloody stand that new Flake ad with Joss Stone in it, muttering away to herself and brushing crumbs off her boobs. Stupid Flake ad.

The Chocolate Gap

Creak... creak... creak. What's that sound? It's the sound of my Will To Live returning! It's only four weeks until daylight savings begins. It's getting lighter in the mornings. Birds are twittering again. For every minute of sun we gain each day, I will surely become one percent less crabbit! Right now my temper is short, especially when watching University Challenge and the students deliberate too long before answering the question.

"Hurry up FOOLS!" I screech at the telly. "This is not a pub quiz!"

If I was the producer of the Challenge, any hesitation longer than five seconds would be rewarded with a small electric shock to the buttocks. I'm sure we could rig up the chairs somehow.

Speaking of televison and chairs, Monday nights aren't the same since Nigella Express finished. I used to scoff at Nigella's sprawling adjectives and deep-throating of vegetables but I love her, really I do. Watching her show makes me ever more resolved to enjoy my food and never diet again. Yes there is the annoying Scoffing By The Fridge Light scene at the end of every episode but I feel she has the right idea. There's a great chapter in her book How To Eat about dieting and healthy eating that is one of the most sensible things you could hope to read on the subject. She celebrates food. She doesn't divvy it up into Good or Bad. She can wax lyrical about a bag of spinach just as much as a wodge of chocolate cake.

One time in the new series she made herself a tasty lunch of sourdough toast, chopped into three slices. One had hummus, one some avocado and tomato and olive oil on the other. It was a nice little meal on a nice little plate, but a year ago I would have freaked out... FAT! CARBS! PLEASURE! I used to restrict toast to a Weekend Treat, which of course made me pine for it from Monday to Friday, sputtering with resentment over a perfectly tasty bowl of porridge. These days I'm not breakfast bossy  - sometimes it's toast, sometimes it's yogurt, sometimes it's leftovers, whatever I'm hankering for. The less restrictive I've been the more I seem to lean towards a healthy choice.

Anyway, The Nige has inspired me. I have a gigantic folder full of recipes I've saved over the years that I'd filed under Cook These Once I'm Skinnier. I've always loved food and cooking but I'd deemed most recipes off limits. As if I couldn't be trusted with certain ingredients; as if one mouthful would be my undoing.

Why not just COOK what you want to cook? You don't have to eat it all at once. You can share it with pals. What are you waiting for? I'm talking to myself here, by the way. Was that confusing?  Anyway. I am going to make some of these Forbidden Recipes. Fetch me apron, luv!

Gareth says I have a Cooking Show Face, an expression of utter peace and happiness that is reserved purely for when there's cooking on the telly. My eyes are wide and gleaming and he'll be telling me a story about his day and I do not hear a word. He reckons there's a certain Cooking Show Posture too. If chocolate is on the menu, he'll cackle, HA HA you've got a Chocolate Gap! and wave his hand through the space between the couch and my back, which is alert and upright like a police sniffer dog. Do you have a chocolate gap too? Get out your rulers, tell me I'm not alone?!

Death of a Malteser

Today someone typed in the search box: danger in eating mars bar choc.

How dangerous could it be? According to this Chowhound debate, you can it eat after the expiry date if you store it well. One time in the days of yore I was so gagging for a choccie fix that I ate an expired block of Home Brand cooking chocolate. I don't think it would matter if you ate it fresh from the factory or seventeen years later, it still would have been vile.

What makes me sad is when you see a squashed Mars Bar lying on the ground, dropped by some careless fool. No matter how much of a chocolate snob I become, it still upsets me to see chocolate on a footpath, squashed by shoes or covered in vomit; never fulfilling its destiny. One time I saw some Maltesers, trampled and dissolving in the rain. It was just such a tragic waste.

Abandoned ice cream cones in the summertime, they make my heart sink too.

. . .

I'm in a world of pain today - a severe case of Fighter's Back! I was punching like a madwoman at kickboxing on Monday night and three days later my back and shoulders are still aflame.

Like most things in life, you get what you put in with kickboxing. Remember that ill-advised Advanced class I took recently? My punches were pathetic and my kicks wouldn't have harmed a flea - all due to terror and feelings of inferiority. I like to think I'm completely comfy in my skin these days, but I went all body-conscious when faced with those svelte assassins. Instead of trying to impress with my skills I held back – worried that they'd see my upper arms wobbling if I punched too hard, fretting that my t-shirt was exposing belly during burpees.

But back in my comfy Beginners group, I unleashed my inner Rocky. Not Rocky at his Apollo Creed-clobbering peak, mind you. More like Rocky before the montage with the carcasses: doughy but determined. I disappeared into this zone of intense concentration, it was just my fists and the glowing red target of the focus pads. Pow pow pow! I didn't give a shit if anything was jiggling. Sometimes I forget that most basic law of the gym: everyone is there for themselves. Exercise is a deliciously selfish pursuit. So forget about the flab and let fly.

On The Road

I have a relatively sane relationship with food these days. I love it dearly and passionately and still dream of diving naked into a vat of Nutella - but these days it's not quite as dominant in my thoughts. At the very least not to the detriment of basic things like work, sleep, bathing, etc etc.

Every now and then though, I get that possessed feeling. And more often that not it happens when I'm out of town. Put me on an open road and suddenly there's nothing in my brain but thoughts of FOOD FOOD FOOD.

Perhaps this stems from the epic voyages of my Australian childhood when my parents rationed one measly Lifesaver per 250 kilometres, but as soon as I'm in a moving vehicle for anything longer than half an hour I think... Ooh I'm kind of peckish. Are we there yet? I start calculating how far it is to the nearest town or motorway services as a mild panic flutters in my stomach... What if I get really hungry? What if I STARVE?

Last month we were heading way up the A9 for a wedding in a tiny village. Despite a generous lunch before we left and an arsenal of fruit and nuts in my handbag my thoughts quickly wandered to chocolate. It's a pretty boring road, the A9; and as always we were stuck behind a parade of trucks and tourist buses. We inched past magnificent mountains but I was mesmerised by all the signs that warned ROAD LIABLE TO ICING... Mmmm, icing.

It didn't stop when we got to the Tiny Wee Village either. It really was tiny and wee, and we were going to be there for two whole days and two whole nights! So as soon as we checked into the hotel I said to Gareth, "Let's go check out the town", which was codespeak for, "Let's find out where all the food is". I paced down the streets, scanning the smattering of buildings like a robot. Name. Opening Hours. Prices. Menu. I had to have all the information. All the options. You know, so I wouldn't STARVE TO DEATH!

On the morning of the wedding we had a full Scottish breakfast at the hotel that would satisfy most stomachs for three weeks, but already I was plotting... Wedding isn't til 1PM... wonder how long it will go for? What kind of gap will there be between wedding and reception? Is the reception like lunch, or dinner? Should I stuff a sandwich into my handbag? Hmm hmm...

The wedding was lovely despite the relentless rain. I love proper weddings. And then there was a bloody delicious dinner about 4PM... I had the roast beef and my first ever Yorkshire pudding. Ooh yeah baby.

Not long after they cleared the tables ready for the ceilidh - that's Scottish dancing, take yer partner by the hand and all that. And what do you know, I was still thinking about food, especially now that glass of wine had kicked in. I hear these Highland weddings go on all night. And all that dancing. What if I get hungry again? Huh huh huh?

And that was despite the chocolate fountain. As soon as we'd sat down for dinner I'd noticed a mysterious tower-shaped structure in the corner, wrapped in plastic.

"I reckon that's a chocolate fountain under there," I'd said casually to Gareth.

I tried to act natural but he kept catching me staring at it. And so began the whispered running commentary throughout our meal:

Oooh lookit that fountain, Shauna!
Wahey! The dude's taken off the plastic cover!
Ooh, he's switching it on!
Oooh look, he's adding the chocolate chips!
He's getting out his marshmallows now!
And his strawberries!
Are you ready to dip? Are you excited?

Well of course I was bloody excited! It was molten, flowing chocolate, three feet from my nose! But then again, I thought, what if it wasn't really nice chocolate? Even in the depths of ridiculous possession I still had my lofty standards. Besides, I reckon I could do two trips to the fountain before I'd get an attack of self-consciousness. It could be a long evening. What to do?

Meanwhile the backs of my heels had become all blistered from impractical shoes, so I seized that excuse to wander over to the wee shop before it closed to get some Band-Aids. And a Freddo Frog. It was still chucking down with rain but I risked breaking my neck and/or frizzing my hair to hobble across the street. Stomach comes first!

So we danced and drank and chatted for hours and had a lovely time. I felt like such a goose carrying round my emergency chocolate ration, especially when they wheeled out the tea and sandwiches and wedding cake for supper. But somehow, in the midst of that foody mood... it was so comforting and reassuring to know wee Freddo was there, nestled beside my tissues and lipgloss, just in case I needed him.

The Tourist

I did my research before we headed off to the log cabin. Sure, it was self-catering but it also happened to be near Callander, which is the home of the Ben Ledi Cafe, one of The Independent's Top 50 UK cafes. I drooled over the website for weeks in advance. So while Gareth was looking forward to long bike rides, strenuous hikes and blissful serenity, I was dreaming of fried fish and burgers.

I had pretty much memorised the menu, so as we pedaled alongside the loch on the Tuesday afternoon I chanted to myself, "Just keep going. Keeeeep going. Soon you can have the chips. Or the milkshake. Or the banana split."

So imagine my dismay when we rocked up to the Cafe a few hours later and it was CLOSED.

"Oh."

"Are you okay?" asked Gareth.

"Of course I'm okay!" I said brightly. "Why the hell wouldn't I be okay?"

"Umm. Alright. What do you want to do now?"

"Go back to the cabin and cook something, I suppose."

When we returned I got busy with the pots and pans right away.

"So you're sure you're alright?" Gareth asked again.

"Yes! Why do you keep asking?"

"We-llllll," he said carefully, "Sometimes when you have a food-related disappointment it can take you a long time to recover."

"Don't be ridiculous!"

Half an hour later we were eating our sensible home-cooked meal, something involving spring greens and baby potatoes I think.

"Soooo," I said, trying to sound casual. "Do you think they'll open later?"

"Who?"

"I mean, WHAT IF THEY DON'T? What if they're shut ALL WEEK?"

"Ha ha! You are obsessed!"

"I'm not."

We went back on the Thursday and thank-bloody-goodness the lights were on. I was torn between the burger and the fish tea but when Gareth ordered the fish tea, I knew I could steal a bite of his and it would be almost as good as having both meals. Hurrah!

"Just the beef burger thanks!" I said to the waitress.

"Okay."

"OH! Could I get cheese on that too?"

"Sure. Anything else?"

"No. OH! Any chance of some bacon too?"

"Of course." You gluttonous piggy.

"Cheers!"

Oh people. It was so worth all those weeks of anticipation. I would have to say it's the best burger I've had in Britain. The beef was succulent, the relish was homemade and zingy. The bread roll was one of those gorgeous pillowy Scottish ones. And the salad! Not only was there fresh, delicious greenery on the burger, there was EXTRA salad on the side! I had never seen such a radical thing on Scottish shores before.

Of course I had a major case of Plate Envy when Gareth's fish tea came out. Check out that fish! The batter was so clean and golden, no bits of old dead chips clinging to it like you get in some less quality establishments. By the way, for the uninitiated, a fish tea is basically fish and chips with bread and butter on the side. Gareth said it was just as good as all the fish and chips he'd scoffed in Australia!

Well, he said that after some prompting.

"Is it as good as Australia? Is it? Is it!?!"

"YES! DAMMIT!"

I also had an orange juice which was genuine freshly squeezed! "Whoa, tastes like Spain!" was the Gareth verdict. Many places claim freshly squeezed but the only thing they're squeezin' is a Tetra pack.

Afterwards I had a banana split but that photo came out blurry as I was trembling in anticipation.

There are few things more pleasurable to me than when you've been looking forward to something for ages, building it up in your mind, and it actually turns out to be just as brilliant as you imagined. Particularly when it's something edible.

Anyway, there's absolutely no real point to this entry except to say I heart food. And when it comes to being a tourist, I shall always travel with stomach first, eyes and feet second.

Freaky Friday

Thanks so much for your rockin' comments and emails, groovers! You have no bloody idea how much I appreciated every single word. I've sent my visa application back with a metric tonne of extra evidence, so now we play the waiting game. Cross your fingers and toes and eyes that they'll be satisfied this time! :)

Okay, life is generally a wee bit batshit crazy right now. I had a slight freakout in the gym this morning, swooshing away on the Arc trainer, "What am I doing here? I don't have time to be here! There's too much to do!", rah rah rah. Exercise is not having a soothing effect lately, it just seems to wind me tighter and tighter. So I am going to do more soothing stuff, like yoga and outdoor walks.

It's interesting to really listen to your body and give in to its demands, instead of trying to bully it into doing what your brain wants it to do. Which has long been my problem. The body is saying, "Dude, be gentle with me" so I am trying to listen. And it's also saying, "Don't fill me full of chocolate, dammit. You think you want it but you dinnae need it, hen."

I am so freaking proud of myself for not using food as a coping mechanism. When I got off the train in London last week having just found out about the stinking Visa Situation, my brain was screaming "CHOCCCCOLATE! GIMME CHOOCCCOLATE!". But my sister was there and we got on another train to our Indulgent Spa Hotel. We shared a Berry Cheeky Nakd Bar and I talked about my worries instead of burying them in cocoa.

Remember when Rhi and I went to Lisbon last year? I gained 6.5 pounds due to my pre-holiday, holiday and post-holiday feasting. Last year I had resigned myself that this would always be the case on holiday, there was no way I'd miss out on yummy different foods. But now I see it doesn't have to be that way. This time I was more choosy about what I ate, often sharing things with my sister so I'd get the idea of a dish without needing to eat the whole thing. I got the thrill of something new without the remorse.

I was pretty damn gobsmacked by how well I handled things, considering I was a total stressmonkey. And this week is going well too. Was gagging for a giant block of Green & Blacks for lunch yesterday but had a mega bowl of stir-fried vegies and tofu instead and it was strangely delicious. I'm not even trying to lose weight at the moment, I really don't give a shit... I'm just trying to do enough good things to make me feel healthy and happy. But I can tell from mirrors and clothes that I'm holding steady. Exxxcellent.

It's finally coming together, people, after all these years. I am learning the fine art of moderation. I am dealing with my problems instead of distracting myself with a good old binge. The urge is just not there anymore. I can tell you it really sucks to actually feel shitty feelings instead of masking them with chocolate, and I'm sure I've been a total whiny weepy biaaatch to live with. But life sometimes features raw edges and rough spots and crappy days and you just have to embrace it all. I'd much rather a little stress than return to the bad old days of sitting numbly on the couch with half a kilo of cooking chocolate.

Come Fry With Me

I am having a good week. And this in spite of eating a deep-fried Mars Bar yesterday. No, actually it's because I ate a deep-fried Mars Bar yesterday. Oh baby! Just one bite of that sweet and crispy goo and the world seems even more of grand place to be.

It was actually only a quarter of a deep-fried Mars Bar, as I was sharing it amongst friends. I've been eating pretty well and exercising like a mofo for eight solid weeks now without drama and fanfare, so I didn't hesitate to tuck in.

I mentioned awhile back I was taking the emphasis away from scales, deadlines and goal weights, and it still seems to be working. All the anxiety and pressure is gone. I'm exercising because I enjoy it and my body craves it. I'm eating what I want and what I want just happens to be healthy stuff. And my jeans are getting baggy. By removing the deadlines and expectation, instinct seems to be taking over. Don't get me wrong, it's still taken just as much planning and hard stinky work in the gym, but my mindset is changing. I'm now trying to cement the attitude "this is just how I live my life" rather than "this is what I have to do to lose blubber".

Some examples! For our wedding anniversary two weeks ago, Gareth and I stayed over in Edinburgh. So often when I'm let out of the house I see this as license to let loose with the eating. First we had lunch at Wannaburger, home of the lovely big burgers, fat fries and obscenely huge chocolate shakes. At Christmas with the lads from work, I'd ordered all three. This time I knew all three wouldn't really help my goals, so I thought with the brain instead of the stomach. I went for the burger I really fancied, no chips and a plain orange juice.

Round Two was dinner at Chop Chop, one of our favourite restaurants. It ain't romantic but it's gooood. This time I thought long and hard about what I really wanted to eat and then we ordered small size dishes to share. It was our fifth visit to this place and the first that I didn't need to dicreetly unzip my jeans under the table because I was so stuffed. We even had room to share a dessert! Bloody amazing.

I know this is all such basic, simple stuff but it's something I've always struggled with. I knew I should make considered choices when dining out, but so many times I've thought, "But I may never dine out again! I must have everything I want! Plus bread and butter!".

So I am working hard to undo this all-or-nothing mentality. I tried it again yesterday when I met up with Greg and Jillian, the fab friends we stayed with in San Francisco before our wedding. I was drooling over the lunch menu and almost pounced on the burger and fries. But I reasoned that it would never be as good as Wannaburger so wasn't really worth it. So I chose something lighter instead then later took the opportunity to try the quarter-of-a-deep-fried Mars Bar. Which really was worth it.

Excuse my language here Mothership, but it feels fucking amazing to feel it all coming together. To trust myself. To feel balanced and calm. To realise after all this time that the power and knowledge really is in my hands. Wow that sentence makes me sound like a Ninja Turtle or something. But seriously. I know how to to do this, I've always known; but now I finally have complete faith in myself that I can do it. And that it hasn't all been a big fluke.

. . .

Today is Red Nose Day, in which people across Britain do wacky things to raise money for Comic Relief. If you've seen the original UK version of The Office, do you recall David Brent dancing like a twat and dressing up like a bird? That was all in the name of Comic Relief.

If you don't have a bird suit handy, you could always contribute by buying a copy of Shaggy Blog Stories. This book went from wacky idea to real live book in just 7 days! It is a collection of funny stories from 100 UK bloggers that would surely keep you amused for hours. There's even a story of mine, from my non-fat blog. Hurrah!

So come on luvvies, why not buy a copy! That link will take you to lulu.com, where they ship all over the world and you can even pay via PayPal. You know reading burns calories. Or at the very least will tone your eyeballs. Nobody wants to see a flabby eyeball.

Gone Fishin'

I was discussing Listen To Your Guts Week with my sister the other day and she was having a thematic set of seven herself: Don't Eat Standing Up Week. She'd read somewhere about the perils of vertical grazing and realised she does this quite a bit, so she's trying to get into the habit of putting food on a plate and sitting down to savour it. We have the same Danger Time - those wily hours between arriving home from work and eating dinner.

"Sometimes I just dump my bag and walk straight into the kitchen and open the fridge," she said. "And then I just start rustling around. What do we have here, what do we have here."

"Oh yeah, I do that."

"I even get a fork out of the drawer before I open the fridge! I go hunting. STAB! An olive. STAB! A sundried tomato straight from the jar. I'm like those dudes on the boats with the spears."

"Spearfishing!"

Bwahhaa.

This weight loss caper is so often about the small stuff. The days of me baking a cake and eating it all on my own are long gone, so I have to look for the less obvious things. Losing blubber now is a matter of being aware of any little habits I've cultivated and making a few tweaks. These seemingly innocent things are so easily ignored, but can now make the difference between a loss or maintaining yet-a-bloody-gain.

...

Did you know that Cherry Ripe bars count as part of your Five A Day? No? Well if you can count a bloody can of baked beans full of salt and sugar, as they proudly declare on the tin, then surely I can include a Cherry Ripe? Or a Terry's Chocolate Orange? It's shaped like a real orange.

Anyway, I've been meaning to post this link for ages, yet again from Kathryn's Limes & Lycopene blog - What actually is five serves? What does a serve of vegies look like? Pretty bloody small! It's not half as daunting as you may think. The post is an brilliant visual guide and really brings things into perspective. I know you guys are a healthy bunch, so you may only want to check it out in order to feel a satisfying sense of smugness that you're actually packing away ten serves a day and your risk of scurvy is minimal.

Juicy Juicy Green Grass

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."

"Thursday?"

"Yes..."

"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!

Mile High Blog

That last entry sure was depressing, eh? But here I am, writing this late at night way up high in the sky, just to reassure everyone (and myself) that it's not all doom and gloom.

I've met some inspiring successful maintainers through this site and they've often told me that it sucks... but it does get easier over time. And even though I would have to be the slowest learner of all -- I'm like those insects that hurl themselves into light bulbs over and over again and taking forever to realise ouch that hurts, perhaps I shouldn't keep doing that -- even a chump like me is finding it easier as time goes on.

Example of progress:

2000 - ATE: 2 litre tub of ice cream. REACTION: Complete catastrophic meltdown and at least 7 day banishment to the Self Loathing Pit.

2006 - ATE: Mars Bar.  REACTION: Oh well, eat less tomorrow.

(Of course this doesn't happen all the time, there are occasional hysterics. Like last week I purchased and swiftly demolished a pack of salt and vinegar Hula Hoops while waiting for the train, then sat looking at the empty packet wondering how/why that happened and despaired over what long-time readers of this site must think. Is she thick? Will she ever learn?)

What I love about having a Fat Blog is how you can start writing an entry feeling distraught about some Fat Issue and by the time you've spent an hour thrashing the keyboard, your thoughts have cleared and you realise the situation is not as terrible as you thought. Like when I watched that episode of Real Story last week, I was soaking up the anxiety and gloom of all those women they interviewed like a grotty old kitchen sponge. But when I finally finished writing about it on here, I realised I am not those women. I am really not doing as badly as I think. It's getting better all the time. You really have to focus on the positive steps you've taken and give yourself some credit. I am NOT as obsessed with food as I used to be. It's really been tamed into just... unbridled enthusiasm!

And we're all doing okay. All us kids in internet land. We are learning off each other all the time...

Corn alert! Corniness ahead!

Tonight at Heathrow when I was all bored and lonely since my stinking flight was delayed, I paid £1 for ten tiny minutes of internet time just to check the comments. I got all sentimental thinking about us geeks and how I've watched us shrink yet freaking grow! This is not about exercise tips, recipes and well-meaning advice, it's watching each other kick ass and fall over and get up to kick ass again, with everyone cheering and commiserating each other. There's just such a great vibe with this blogging thing sometimes. I know I never would have come so far without all the folks out there to engage with. Onward and downward, comrades!

End of corn.

You have to understand it's been an emotional day, kiddies; full of planes and airports and goodbyes. I went to London to see The Mothership before she headed back to Australia, and I got to hang out with her and my sister. We had afternoon tea at a posh hotel for her belated 50th birthday present and feasted on cucumber sandwiches and fiddly French pastries. And it only occurred to me now, up here in the plane hours later,  how absorbed I'd been in the moment, so chuffed to have the old gang together again for the first time since April 2004. I'd guzzled five cups of tea and 2.5 scones piled with obscene amounts of jam and clotted cream, and not once did I panic about the calories. I just thought, COOL, here I am in the swanky hotel with my two best ladies and this is mighty fun.

I felt this calmness all weekend. I ate some great food but was completely sane and sensible about it. For once I came away from London stuffed with happy memories of the friends and family I saw, instead of stuffed with remorse for my overindulgence.

So now I am scribbling all this on the back of my boarding pass (online check-in rules!) at 11PM. The captain says we're 75 miles from Edinburgh and it's mighty turbulent. But I just wanted to get this down and I vow to transcribe it later without editing it to death and tell you all it can get better, even if you're a bit thick like me. I ain't afraid of a scone no more.

It Never Ends

This week's episode of Real Story was about Slimmer Winners. They surveyed 70 women who'd won slimming competitions in various magazines and newspapers. You know -- Success Stories, Slimmer of the Year, etc etc. If you hurry along to the BBC website you can watch the whole thing again right now.

It was the most bloody depressing thing I've watched in a long time.

Nicked from the website:

"An investigation into the weight loss habits of 70 slimmers showed that less than half had kept their weight off, with the remainder being overweight, obese or severely obese.

Moreover, eight out of the 70 demonstrated indications of bulimia and 10 showed signs of Binge Eating Disorder.

Fifty-one of them either binged or used compensatory behaviour in the past month, such as taking water tablets/laxatives and hard exercise.

Nearly three quarters of the champion slimmers had binged at least once - with some binging up to eight times - in the past month. "

I don't want to dwell on the statistics, because there is only so much you can extract from a sample size of 70. And they really squeezed the absolute maximum stats from that 70. What had me close to tears was the people they interviewed.

• A woman who'd gained back three stone (18kg/42lb) and was hypervigilant about weighing her food. They showed her weighing half a banana and she confessed sometimes she might chop off another tiny slice if she was feeling indulgent. She then said she even weighs SLICED BREAD, "Because even in a standard medium-slice loaf, some are thicker than others".
• A woman who was Slimming World's Yorkshire Slimmer of the Year who'd take some sort of water tablets the morning of her weigh-in to make her pee like mad, then she'd have to guzzle water as soon as she hopped of the scales so she could hydrate. She was also bullimic. She regained her weight then finally had gastric by-pass surgery last year.
• An older woman who was a finalist in their 2004 Slimmer of the Year contest, who had gained back three stone and said she felt deeply ashamed and embarrassed.

It was the last lady that particularly made me want to bawl. I remember reading about her in Slimming, one the last issues I bought before I vowed never to buy it again, and thinking how radiant she looked. And now two years later here she was on telly all teary and fragile. She just so sad, ashamed and resigned that I wanted to smash through the screen and cuddle her.

I also felt this odd sense of despair, that she could be in her sixties and still be tortured by all this diet crap. I didn't want to get to her age and still feel like that.

That's when it hit me. It never ends.

Remember that episode of The Simpsons when Moe gets a facelift and becomes handsome and gets a role on the soap opera called It Never Ends? Well this food issue crap is like our very own drawn-out melodrama... It. Never. Bloody. Ends!

Real Story had all these quotes from the slimmers - they constantly thought about food, they'd just replaced obsessive calorie counting with obsessive exercise, they felt like their lives were ruled by food, they were scared of food, that the urge to binge was overwhelming. Sometimes we read these cheesy Success Stories and think they must have hit the jackpot then lived happily ever after in the size 8 pants, but in reality many just end up smaller with the same issues.

I got quite anxious watching the show, wondering if I was in the same boat. It's not so much about the fear of regaining all the weight - I have maintained a large loss for a few years now. I am confident that while I will go off the rails now and then, I will not let it get out of hand. This is not me being cocky by any means, I just know I will never be a size 26 again.

It's more about the emotional shit. That even if you get to a goal weight, it is still a struggle every day. That you constantly have to be vigilant about what you eat and wrestle the urge to binge. That you just think about food all the bloody time.

Like last weekend, we went to the Wickerman Festival. As soon as we pitched our tent I dragged Gareth into the main grounds... not to check out the different music tents but to check out the different FOOD VANS!

And my sister and I email each other about three times a day... a good 50% of those emails concern what we're eating for lunch, what's for dinner, what we ate yesterday and what we wish we didn't eat yesterday and what we vow not to eat tomorrow.

Food, food, food.

It's just a crappy, sinking feeling to realise that you will never be free of all this.

I got upset watching that show because I recognised those feelings of despair and desperation, but I do feel like I am in a better place than many of those women. They didn't seem to be in touch with why they behaved that way. It also seemed they felt they had little power or control over their plight. I don't feel that way anymore. I think with all this navel-gazing we do en blog, you start to learn about yourself and your mistakes.

I am quietly resigned to the fact that these fundamental eating issues will never go away, but I won't let them dominate my life any more. As much as I hate to paraphrase Dr Phil, I don't think it can be cured... just managed.

And I will never weigh a slice of bread.

Right Time and the Right Place

I felt like a fraud when you all congratulated me on resisting the Mars Bar Ice Cream last week. The only reason I resisted it was because it wasn't what I really wanted.

What I really wanted was a Marks & Spencer Vanilla Chunky Giant. Which is like a Magnum - chocolate coated vanilla ice cream - except not as sweet and cloying. But M&S was closed by the time I puffed up from the train station, so I couldn't get one. Had I dared to shove past the security guard and barge to the freezer section before they locked the doors, I would definitely have bought one. The Mars Bar, with its extreme sweetness and flimsy chocolate, didn't seem an adequate substitute at the time. So I'm not really a beacon of strength for turning it down; just a fussy, spiteful git.

It really helps to cultivate a certain fussiness with certain foods. To be choosy with lofty standards. I remember when the right time for food was ANY TIME and the right food was ANY FOOD. Now I like it to be the right food, at the best time of day or week, consumed in the perfect locale with the planets in correct alignment...

The best example is chocolate. Green and Blacks is now my preferred brand. I try not to eat it between Sunday and Tuesday, because that's too close to Wednesday Weigh In, thus I wouldn't really be able to relax and enjoy it. So Wednesday night is good. Or I like to eat it on a Friday night, when I know the working week is behind me and there's nothing else I should be thinking about and I can sleep in the next day and wake up at my leisure and think fondly, How about that great chocolate I ate last night. And I like eating it on the couch when Gareth is beside me; he's usually reading or on the laptop and there's music on and everything's peaceful. That's why I get cranky if I get a chocolate from the vending machine at work, or eat M&Ms in the dark at the movies, or a few stray squares when I know there's a phone call to be made or some menial task to do. It has to be mindful consumption. If you're only meant to eat a tiny wee portion of chocolate, well then you have to pay attention to the moment! If you eat chocolate in the dark, how do you even know if you really ate it? Did it really happen?!

One of my favourite times and places is the train on a Thursday evening, when I've been in town looking at the shops or getting a haircut. I get one of those tiny bars and a magazine then tell myself I can't start eating until after the first stop. Then after that I break off a little bit more after each stop and the 35 grams are finished just as I get to my station. Sweeeeeet.

Looking at my spreadsheet, I've eaten a lot less chocolate this year since I started making it a real treat. Methinks I need to treat toast with the same reverence!

. . .

Last week was much better. I ate reasonably and the scale was down a few pounds today. I'm not going to record anything officially because it just a bit too dramatic of a loss. I have been all feverish with a cold, eating less and just drinking tonnes of water so everything is out of whack. I can just tell that the big dive in numbers isn't a proper loss, so I am going to kick on this week and see what happens.

I had a great exercise week too! A big cheer to Marla for suggesting wall push-ups while my knees are dodgy. They were surprising gruelling! Perhaps more so than the knee ones.

I managed a slow, easy bike ride on Saturday, with no knee pain! I have lost so much fitness though. I tried to convince myself that two months of next-to-no cardio had NOT entirely replaced my muscles with gelatinous bulk, but now I'm more than a little bit disillusioned. I was sweating and pedalling my pudgy legs out during that bike ride, surely I was flying! But then Gareth passed me with his legs rotating as slow as molasses and said, "Isn't it nice to be outside? This is so relaxing..." Hehe.

All was going great on Planet Knee until Monday when I wore some slip-on sandals that really seemed to hammer my knees walking on the pavement to the station. I am going to have to stick to boring, sensible shoes as every time I wear something remotely dainty my knee ends up all tender and sore again. I spoke to the physio about it and have got some different kinds of exercises to do now, which hopefully will help my strength levels. It's such a slow, tedious process and I'll bore you no further with the details. Rest assured I am doing all the things I need to be doing.

Well I am feeling more snotty than entertaining or insightful today so I will just slink off to bed... til next time, comrades!

Blur

My lard-busting efforts are like an old manual focus lens on a crummy SLR camera. This could possibly be the crappiest analogy I've ever come up with.

I remember this ancient Pentax I used in my photojournalism class at uni. I would peer through the viewfinder and wrap my chubby mitt around that lens, twisting the dial til it got in focus. But it never seemed to stay there for long. The slightest false move, the smallest tremble, and everything went blurry again.

So that's how it's been lately. Focusing. Losing focus very easily. Feeling fuzzy and blurred. Refocusing. Over and over again.

The couple of weeks have been completely out of focus. I am one of these people who does not thrive on chaos. I like routine. I like planning my exercise for the week, ordering the groceries, laying my clothes out every night for the next day, getting to bed by a certain time. As soon as anything unusual is thrown into the mix (Mothership visit, weekend camping trip) I don't cope well.

And that's in spite of all my forward planning for these events. I plotted healthy meals for Mum's visit and packed healthy foods for the camping trip, but none of that counts if you eat the healthy food and then eat a whole pile of crap ON TOP OF IT. Mum ended up staying an extra night, so instead of cooking something healthy I suggested we get a takeaway curry, aka a steaming bowl of grease. Then while in the Highlands on the weekend, I easily persuaded myself into an ice cream cone, a large serve of greasy chips and a handful of shortbread.

It's like as soon as I venture outside of my home/work routine into the Real World, all my planning and logic fades into the background and I give myself licence to chow. As though calories don't count if they're eaten in the non-everyday Super Happy Fun Zone.

The eating is always so mindless, I don't feel guilt or remorse and I never stop to think, Is this something I really need to eat? It wasn't until I got on the scales yesterday and realised I was up 2.5 lb (1.1kg) that I remembered all that crap I ate.

. . .

Yesterday I felt so bloody fat and cranky and ugly. My face was all puffy and itchy, my legs were a mess of red blotchy bites; I had a severe reaction to the midges (small, annoying Scottish insects) that attacked us on the weekend.

So I was in a small, shitty supermarket for the sole purpose of buying one red onion to put in our homemade bean burgers. Why is it when you feel fat and ugly you want to eat crap that will make you feel even more fat and ugly? I selected my onion then prowled the aisles, all reckless and defiant, wondering what rubbish I could cram into my gob. I wanted to grab anything and everything. But this particular supermarket is tiny and poorly stocked, I could only huff at the lack of decent ice cream; the paltry selection of chocolate and crisps. Sure I wanted a binge but I wanted a binge of decent QUALITY. Long gone are the days when I'd be happy with Home Brand ice cream and cooking chocolate.

In the end I just lined up in the queue with my stupid red onion. I put it on the conveyor belt and waited for the old lady ahead of me to painstakingly count out small change to pay for her beef mince, solitary apple and pint of milk. So I paced back and forth to the ice cream freezer at the front of the store, eyeing the Magnums and Soleros and Mars Bar Ice Creams. On my third trip I thought, FUCK IT, I'm going to have a Mars Bar Ice Cream!

But then I remembered a moment from last year, when I'd just moved in with Gareth and was feeling confused and overwhelmed by the whole cohabiting/marriage thing. I'd sneaked off to the shop for a Mars Bar Ice Cream while his friends were visiting. I stood at the bottom of the hill scoffing it down then looking for somewhere to stash the wrapper. I remember it didn't taste anything special.

So I just went home with my red onion.

I said hello to Gareth then went straight to the kitchen and stuck two fat pieces of grainy bread into the toaster. I slathered them with an obscene amount of peanut butter then gnashed it all down with two huge glasses of milk. I ended up giving Gareth half a slice, but I ate enough to feel satisfied. All those peanuts and grains jabbing my gums and sticking in my teeth, it was all rather violent and messy.

I dunno what comes over me sometimes. You'd think after 5.5 years of fat fighting I'd have learned not to confuse eating and emotions, but it never ever stops. To Gareth it just looked like I was eating a piece of toast, but for me it was a compulsion that I couldn't ignore. I won't kid myself there's a cure. But as I've said before, if I can't eliminate these episodes altogether, at least these days the damage is less calorific, and I can put a stop to it a helluva lot quicker.

I'm going to have a quiet weekend. Clean up and cook and write and exercise and settle down again. Think about what I want and what needs doing.

Refocus, refocus.

Totally Edacious, Dude

Dictionary.com Word of the Day for March 31:

edacious \i-DAY-shus\,
adjective: Given to eating; voracious; devouring.

Yesterday I had an encounter with my old friend, the Marks and Spencer Caramel Shortcake. Yes, it was yet another Cake Day at work. And since it was good quality cakes, instead of those shithouse cakes-that-taste-like-sand from Morrisons that some people bring, I partaked in the cake. Partaked? Partook?

I really savoured that Caramel Shortcake. I took ten minutes to eat it, enjoying the shortbread perfection and the way the chocolate splinters when you bite, then burrows into the caramel. I'd take a bite, pause for some tea, take another bite, contemplate the meaning of life.

And then I chased it down with FIVE Marks and Spencer Extremely Chocolate Mini-Bites. Sure I only ate two of them whole - the others I just nibbled the chocolate off the outside and chucked away the innards as I really only wanted the chocolate. Damn you Mr Marks and Mr Spencer, and your delicious confections.

I went home and 'fessed up to the Scottish Companion. He looked bemused and confused as always. The poor lad never passes judgement on what I eat yet is always being subjected to my verbal food diaries. Perhaps some church could have a special confessional box for food-related sins, and the priest will say, "Say three hail marys, tape your mouth shut and don't nick the communion bread on your way out."

Not that I have SINNED, mind you. Caramel Shortcake is not bad. Caramel is the nectar of the gods! I refuse to divide food into good and bad. There's just food to eat often, and food to eat not so often. Yesterday the not so often happened too often. So I put a stop to it quick then got back on track at dinnertime.

As you can see I am far from perfect. But if you asked me for the weight loss secret, there it is. It is just getting up after you fall down. Over and over again.

. . .

Thanks for being so cool about the Happiness entry. Sometimes you just need to put on your ranty pants and let it all out! I used to be terrifed of admitting I was happy or proud of myself, thinking that would somehow undo all my hard work or I'd be mowed down by a bus - pride cometh before a fall, etc etc. But in many respects happiness and success is a choice, or perhaps a reflection of your choices. So as long as I keep doing the good deeds and shuffle along in the a positive direction, I'll be alright.