RIGHT, it’s time to face up to it. I have put on a few pounds, several actually. This has not been an overnight occurrence, more a gradual increase, which began soon after my wedding day last June.
For months and months before our big day, I was so focused on making sure that I could squeeze into my wedding dress that I did not eat anything unhealthy. The chocolate pots, chocolate bars, even Easter eggs were abandoned. I still ate my usual five meals a day (yes five), but I cut out all the crap in between. I had willpower of steel.
There had been a moment of panic just after Christmas last year when the dress I’d ordered was actually a bit snug. I’d made the mistake of being measured for it while I was whippet-thin training for the Great North Run. I had to take action because there was no way I was walking down the aisle showing all my lumps and bumps in a too-tight frock.
ON the first day of my Christmas holiday the battery in my bathroom scales died. I had two choices, I could pop to the shops to buy a new battery and brave the Christmas stampede, or I could stay at home and not bother.
It didn’t take long to make up my mind. I put the scales away. This may not seem a very remarkable thing to do, but to me it is. I use the scales to control my weight. I hop on every few days or so, just to monitor weight loss or gain. Left to my own devices, without the trusted scales, there’s a real danger I could end up the size of a house.
I decided to throw caution to the wind and go without. ‘It’s only a few days,’ I reasoned. ‘I’d manage without them. It would all be fine.’ And it was. It was actually quite liberating. Unfortunately, just the thought of not having to get weighed had me reaching for the chocolates.
THE last time I said I was stopping eating chocolate, Chris laughed at me. ‘You’ll never be able to do it,’ he said. ‘Never in a million years.’
I wasn’t happy with his response. ‘What do you mean I won’t be able to do it?’
He laughed a bit more. ‘You’ll not.’
‘If I want to stop I’ll stop,’ I may have been shouting. ‘It is NOT a problem.’
‘It is,’ Chris stopped laughing. ‘You’re addicted to it.’
Addicted to chocolate? Me? Chris clearly didn’t know what he was talking about.
‘I’m not!’ I looked down at the family bar of Dairy Milk in my hand, and waved it in his face. ‘I’ll do it.’ And I meant it. I put the chocolate back in the fridge. ‘That’s it,’ I said. ‘I’m not eating it again.’
And mine are getting bigger. I’m still weighing in at a healthy nine stone 10, which is eight pounds more than I should be. I’ve been training a lot, and when I train I tell myself that it’s alright to have the odd treat. Everything in moderation and all that.
Unfortunately, my idea of moderation is not what other people may think is moderate. A family pack of Minstrels, Maltesers and a Dairy Milk in one evening seems fairly moderate to me. Others may disagree, of course, but they’d be wrong.
What I don’t think is moderate is having chips four times in one week. That is just wrong, very, very, very wrong. But it’s exactly what I did last week.
MY summer of cake eating has caught up with me. My jeans are starting to feel a little snug. My floaty dresses are significantly less floaty than they were at the start of the summer.
I’m not one for getting weighed every five minutes, but this morning, I decided that enough was enough I needed to assess the damage. I had to face up to things. I thought I may have gained one or two pounds, possibly three, definitely not more than four. Five max.
I stepped onto the scales. Then quickly stepped off again.
Nine stone nine and a quarter. That’s what it said. Nine stone nine and a quarter. That couldn’t be right. I reset the scales and tried again.
Nine stone nine and a half. Still not right. I reset the scales and placed them on a different tile in the bathroom. I took a deep breath, stepped back on.
I jumped off the scales, and threw them into the cupboard. Nine stone ten, almost 11. A gain of eight pounds. More than half a stone. I felt dizzy and a little sick. ‘Chris,’ I screamed.
Chris came running up the stairs. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I’m fat.’ I pointed into the cupboard where the scales lay upside down. ‘I’ve put on half a stone.’ Continue reading →