The Loss of Gains (and those comments from Karl)

Mysteriously, the blogosphere community to which I belong simultaneously fell silent along with my keyboard. It was a few days ago that the mechanical hum of my laptop and untapped keyboard started to bother me, just as ideas about weight loss and fattydom really started whipping up a storm in my mind. Gaining half a kilo last week, whilst it wasn’t entirely wretched, certainly left me feeling that way. The deafening silence from other bloggers has left me feeling there is something in the air.

This week, I lost that 500 grams plus a small fraction and therefore have neither failed nor succeeded in the past fortnight. That is of course unless you are one of those people who prophesise that all experiences in life are opportunities to learn and are therefore valuable; this woman I am not. Some situations are just darn right stub-your-toe-in-the-middle-of-the-night-tragic!

I feel at this stage that a confession of sorts would be valuable in understanding my occasional cynicism and episodic lacklustre attitude to life. Please don’t misunderstand me; I am generally a smiling woman who laughs easily. But picking myself up, pushing down the intermittent “why me?” and copping it on the chin are not things I am great at. I prefer theorising about what motivates behaviour, the elusive underlying psychological premise, and jumping on the Freudian couch.

Where all this cynicism came from is probably best explained by all sorts of experiences that will remain unsaid. I will spare you the details until A) I work up the guts, and B) feel that society won’t judge me. What I will tell you however is that even though I have never been a mere slip of a thing, I did once enjoy a curvy body that moved exactly the way I wanted it to. It went up stairs when I asked it to, it could manoeuvre behind someone’s chair in a restaurant and curled up in the corner of a couch easily.

And then one day, about this time two years ago I fell ill and it lasted over a year. As my body started to betray me and I found myself permanently in a tracksuit and unable to continue with my usual routines, I turned to food in a way that left me completely transformed within less than 6 months. What I will say next will undoubtedly leave a few people thinking, “yeah right, fatty” but I swear that one day I looked in the mirror and saw a fat person. I was so disconnected and angry that I didn’t see what was happening to my body as I indulged in anything and everything I found under my nose.

With stretchy pants and a mirror that started from the waist up, I rarely looked at myself and rarely said no. On one level, I was a person who thought they wouldn’t see the year out but instead of bungy jumping or travelling to Rome, I just ate….and didn’t move. And I didn’t care.

Now, being in a much more self aware state, I simply cannot believe what I have done to myself. I can only admit this now as I truly believe I am on the path to a better me. But I will never be the same; the striations of stretched skin will never go away and I’m terrified of what will be left once I reach my goal weight.

I. Am. 25.

I confronted my husband recently with this news, like he hadn’t been watching me from the sidelines for the past two years.

“You know that when I lose this weight I won’t be like I used to be”

“I know”

“But you know I can’t do anything about that now, right?”

“I know”

“You know I’m terrified about that don’t you”

“I know. But you know I think you’re gorgeous, right?”

“I know”

He’s rock solid that boy of mine. For a woman who shrieks in fear if the bathroom door swings ajar as I’m showering and now dresses in the dark, I’m a far cry from the girl I once was. I had absolutely no idea what I was doing to myself in those months – even when my thighs started to rub together, I was still completely unaware of the gauntlet I was about to subject myself to and the permanent scars I would leave on my body and my mind.

It would take a very special person who has never had this struggle with fat to understand my position. I am understanding of those who simply don’t get it…I am painfully aware of the common misconception that all overweight people are simply unmotivated and lazy.

A good friend revealed to me that when she told her new work colleagues that she had lost over 20 kilos, the response was “what, you’re joking, you can’t be serious”.  In truth, the reason people respond this way is because the overweight person is of course seen as purposeless, work-shy and lacks a determination and resolve that slim people naturally possess. It’s hard for some people to imagine the skinny “determined and fun” person as the “fat lazy” overweight person. It rarely occurs to people that the “determined and fun” person was just overweight.

Naturally, if asked the question, “Are fat people ineffectual?” people would reply with a stern “No”. At least the polite ones would. But I believe the words of Karl Lagerfeld (whom so many women inadvertently love and support) are felt rippling through all the tut-tuts and eye rolling of slim people, suggesting that fat women simply “do not care enough about ourselves to be skinny”. Karl famously remarked,

“No one wants to see curvy women…You’ve got fat mothers with their bags of chips sitting in front of the television and saying that thin models are ugly.”

I suppose according to this premise, I can’t really comment can I? Being an overweight woman who is quite partial to the odd chip, I don’t deserve an opinion. Is it so hard to believe that some curvy women like to look at curvy women and feel sexy as curvy women?

I digress.

What I would like to suggest is that many overweight people are very effective in their lives (I won’t go as far as to list my accomplishments here for fear of seeming like a bit of a nutter) but struggle with food and exercise. It’s one portion of life that is out of control.

Other unfortunates who have drinking problems, light gambling problems, spending problems…(the list goes on and on) are not generally referred to as lazy or disconnected. Some even go as far as to admire these people, with comments of support like “gee, they really play hard and party hard don’t they?” which is the very opposite of lazy. We might as well pat these “high achievers” on the back with a congratulatory slap.

That is of course, unless they’re overweight.

I wish someone had told me what I was getting myself into when I gained so much weight. I wish I had been aware that my whole life would change; my perceptions, my attitude, my social worth, and the way I am perceived. Naturally, I would have shredded this brave person with my bare teeth at the time but maybe, just maybe, a fellow woman who has come back from where I am could have convinced me.

Because of course, I would have seen the desperation in her eyes.

Why, Oh Why?

Whilst society tends to take a “poor them” approach when faced with emotionally torn people who hit the bottle or indeed the town when distressed, a less empathetic opinion is formed for those that hit the pantry.

In my house, we (and I mean “he”) has fallen into the habit of going walkabout on a Saturday afternoon, returnng guilty faced sometime before dinner on a Sunday. Even though it would be easy for me to go down the “A phone call is all I ask” track, I’m not that predictable.

Or maybe I am? 

I found myself consuming a bag of salt and vinegar chips (bought for his truly), half a block of chocolate and a litre of soda water (at least I had sense there) at 2 am this morning. In a slight panic based on ‘I can’t sleep’, ‘Someone might break in and kill me’ and the classic, ‘Do we have anything in common after all?’, I habitually and slowly consumed more calories than I normally would in a few days.

And for someone who has worked so hard to lose an initial 15 and a half kilos (34 pounds), I felt the shame of a self-inflicted giant leap back. So even if the distasteful image of a fat girl stuffing her face lingers in your mind, I ask you to think about what you do in time of trouble. Be honest.

But just quietly, if memories of hitting the gym for hours come to mind…no need to comment here.

Save Yourselves…Say Yes!

Twenty kilometers from where I live lays the Mecca of shopping in the southern hemisphere. A dreadful place; there lies all shopping experiences from Tiffany & Co., to discount Two Dollar Shops. Yesterday I had my sights set on Target.

I hadn’t been to Target for years, as I felt it had developed into being “too classy” for me (I only wish that was a joke). So after schlepping from the car park and choosing my items, I progressed to the checkout, where a very strange thing happened.

After the young assistant beep-beeped through my items she asked me if I would like to buy a bag. I actually heard myself thinking and the process was much like this: 

• Oh no, I should buy a bag to look good and green.
• Seriously, she’s guilting me into the eco-bag.
• I have 15 of them at home already.
• Can’t we just get a bag…ever?
• If it’s so important she should just give me a green one.
• Bugger this. I’m standing up for myself!

Now before you give me what for, yes I understand that plastic bags are bad for the environment. Yes, I appreciate I shouldn’t under any circumstances condone the use of them. And seeing as you asked, yes I do take my green bags to the supermarket and am more than happy to carry a few items without any bag at all.

But for some reason, yesterday I took exception to the general consensus that if at any time I’m offered, I should fork out another few dollars for an eco-bag. And if said store has biodegradable plastic bags, don’t you dare charge me! You’re a major corporation; you can pick up the bill thank you very much!

“Actually, No.” I replied firmly.

“Groovy!” cashier chirped. Really? Groovy?

Having paid, we had a slight stare-off. It was only when she gently pushed my items towards me that I realized with shock-horror that I was not being supplied a bag of any description, free of charge.

Too stubborn and embarrassed to do anything else, I took underwear, socks, stockings, t-shirts and even a pair of size 12 men’s dessert boots under my arm and started the schlep back to where I had come from, which I swear was at least a kilometer away.

So for the sake of the earth, your dignity, pride, and just so you don’t have to flap your size 18 knickers around for the world to see…

Just buy the damn bag!

The High Point of Lows

In the spirit of full self disclosure, I contacted my loved ones and admittedly, some mutual participants in a few loosely formed friendships to let them know I was starting down the road of fatty emancipation.

That was early last year- 2009. When I arrived at the start of August, and had actually gained 3 kilos, I realised that a clumsily fashioned weight loss plan consisting of diet shakes and broccoli was not going to do the trick. Having already exposed myself to over thirty people (and gained a charitable donation for each kilo lost from most members), I realised that I couldn’t pretend I had never said anything, even though I am sure most would have been polite enough not to ask me.

Two days after that fateful day in August, I walked into weight watchers. Each month, I have sent a detailed account to those supporting me, detailing my failures and losses. Seven months down the track, I’ve hit my first milestone.

This is the email…

Hello Supporters,
 
I’ve just got one thing to say… 

“Ooh Eeh Ooh Ah Ah Ting Tang Walla Walla Bing Bang”

Today I finally reached a weight loss of 15kg (33 pounds)! Yes, it has taken me 7 months at Weight Watchers (an average 2 kilo loss a month) and no, it’s not in line with “biggest loser” expectations but I’m quietly proud as punch.
 
When I started this, I thought the weight would just slip off as quickly as it piled on but alas, it’s a bit more involved than that. Whilst the shakes, pills and the elusive goji berry have called may name when I lost little or no weight, I held strong and continued to weigh, measure, prod and poke my food the good ol’ fashioned weight loss way.

I’ve got a way to go yet, another 20kg in fact but I AM going to make it. Can’t wait to get to 18kg…don’t ask me why, it just sounds like an exciting number!
 
A heartfelt thank you for the sideline cheering!

As exciting as this self-affirming diversion has been, must run…I mean plod to the next weight loss goal!
 
Love (Hauling)

 

Even though some might be asking the question as to why it is taking me so long, or even worse, venturing to ask “Are you sure you should be eating that?” (enter Toolman), the support I have gratefully accepted has extended to those here in this forum.

And for that, I have been delightfully surprised!

The Little Road Trip That Was

Just passed, I enjoyed a long weekend with the Toolman throwing caution to the wind and consuming more calories than was probably necessary in the spirit of “having a good time”. More than once I heard my sister sitting on my shoulder, communicating in a ghost like whisper, “chooooooose the chicken salad…chooooooooose the grilled fish”….

“Shut up will you!” I fought back but then reminded myself she was only there to help me, not to ruin my fun. In truth, I obsessed about what I was putting in my mouth the whole weekend; proud when I chose the fish and guilty when I ordered that panna cotta.

The Toolman and I generally enjoyed our time away in turns, indulging in activities that pleased one or the other but rarely at the same time:

Sleep-in: Me

Train ride: Toolman

Coffee and paper: Me

Boat ride: Toolman

Bookshop: Me

Scenic drive: Toolman

As you may have figured out, riding in a moving vehicle of any kind pleases hubby, whilst sitting and doing nothing pleases myself. Add to this the general principle that for any married couple, being in a moving vehicle is a breeding ground for arguments, the weekend was fraught with loved-up danger.

To illustrate, consider the activity referred to as “boat ride” above. What this actually entailed was the toolman convincing me he was going to row me romantically around a scenic lake, but in reality meant squeezing into a too small, bright yellow life jacket and peddling my way around in circles for the pleasure of all those sipping coffee and overlooking the lake.

You know the ones- bright, plastic contraptions that you both sit in and frantically peddle while murky water splashes out the back. To make matters worse, the toolman was not content with chugging through deep water; he insisted on skirting round the edges of the lake, over rocks and banging into pontoons.

 “Go around it” I spat, “People are looking!”

 “I don’t care, this is fun”, he was a little boy in heaven.

“Stop it! Go around!”…. “Erhhhh..Idiot!”

What made it worse was the couple floating in the center of the lake, in the middle of a full blown proposal, ring in hand, which set us both off. I’m not sure but I think what we did next could be classed as stalking; me trying to casually float on by to get close enough to hear, Toolman churning enough water out the back to make that impossible, just to annoy me.

“Slow down! I can’t hear!”

After all the excitement, I nearly forgot how uncomfortable I so obviously was in that tiny lifejacket. And even though admittedly it was probably an extra large, for just a moment, I didn’t mind.

A Camera Click and Dash for Cover

There’s nothing like a photo to shock you into a calorie deprived stoicism that rivals even the most dedicated organic-eating-water-drinking-carbophobic-skinny-minny.

Thanks to Facebook, even the most discerning Fatty cannot immunise themselves against the flagrant attack their friends seem hell-bent on launching, without diversion, straight into fatty’s heart. Over the top you say? Absolutely! But can I venture to stay…

BLOODY WELL STOP IT!

Yes, I am fully aware that I am overweight. I do not however want this reflected in digital form for all to see. It not only gives fatties everywhere the opportunity to zoom in and pan across images of themselves they despise; it gives others the opportunity to gaze at wobbly bits without the distraction of our over-engaging-over-compensating-very-funny-story!

Add another important variable into this state of affairs. When I look in the mirror, fully dressed, ready to go out, I think I look at least passable. That at minimum, people won’t notice me and at best I don’t offend. In truth, sometimes I think I look quite nice, all things considered. This thinking, my friends, is for my very survival.

After going through the rigmarole of viewing oneself from all angles (side with stomach sucked in, stomach out, from front on with shoulders straight, front on shoulders slumped, belly out, belly in…you get the drift), one must pull themselves up straight, think positively and grab their keys. For if I looked at the situation through clear eyes, I wouldn’t go anywhere at all.

And then, unsuspectingly, you log onto Facebook and someone has snapped you without you knowing (which means belly out) and BANG…your heart sinks as you realise the situation is much worse than you realised.

But I’ve lost 14 kilos! But I’m lighter now! I even sprayed myself  last week with fake tan! How can I look like this? And then, you finally drag your gaze away from fleshy thighs and look upwards towards your eyes and it’s even worse.

Sad eyes are hard to cover up. Anatomically, my eyes are the same as those of my former, slimmer self. Inside, I am the same person, with the same gregarious attitude to life but I am covered with all this extra…stuff…that weighs me down.

And whilst I understand that those who “tag” others in photos on Facebook are probably well meaning and more concerned with how they look in the photo than their loved ones, I beg of you: Look at the whole picture, imagine you are each person in the photo and ask yourself whether you would like to be put out there on Stalk-book…I mean Facebook.

I have a dear friend who would innocently ask of me, “What? You look good!” She has said this about me for as long as I have known her and for most of my life I believed her. It’s a lovely sentiment but even she now half yells frantically…”I won’t take one of you!” as she pulls a camera from her bag. My cousin now hands me her camera to delete any I don’t like before she even has a chance to look at them. Bless!

But sadly, for someone who used to slap on a cheesy grin at the hint of a “click” or unrelated “flash”, this is just the way I like it.

So That’s How It’s Done?

Oprah would be proud of me. For the past week I have been quietly espousing the virtues of moving to anyone who will listen but have disguised the lecture as a personal revelation, or “light bulb moment”. For those who weren’t glued to the box watching Oprah but pretending they didn’t know who she was in equal measures during their university days, the former refers to an epiphany whereby the owner of such thought realizes the error of their ways and continues on in their life in an enlightened fashion.

Not to say that I haven’t had a moment of dietary related enlightenment before. I’ve often faced the reality of food consumption and exercise and understood why my shape remains the same. But this week, I am flying high on the result of a 1.5 kilo (3.3 pound) loss that I am convinced is due to simply sweating.

For those of you who hate moving, like I do, take heed.  This is what I have learnt this week:

Don’t:

• Go to a specialty shoe store and spend 300 dollars on those specially designed running shoes with the pretty pink stripe that you are convinced will make that bulging ankle look less like a strung ham and more like a feminine curve; you’ll wear them once, then use them as a door stop forever more
• Purchase hundreds of dollars on a perfect sporting outfit that you believe will make you look less of a novice than you so obviously are; squeezing yourself into a Nike singlet isn’t fooling anyone
• Buy an exercise machine and park it in the middle of your lounge room; I know, I understand, I truly do, but honey, you’ll stop using it after a month and will have to do the walk of shame as you move it to the garage in the dark of night

Do

• Think about an activity that you feel like or have to do that may raise even the slightest of perspiration, then do it
• Clean something. Just get up and clean the bathroom, the kitchen, really put your back into it until you feel some moisture on your neck
• Just walk somewhere that you have to be; no need for special clothes or shoes, just act normal, avoid eye contact, try to breathe and no one will notice this is a big deal for you!

Moving is normal, moving more than normal will break a sweat. I both cleaned and walked to a bookshop, the supermarket and to a coffee shop with my husband. I got out of each encounter with the pavement unscathed and realised that in fact, the world’s not out there to hurt a fat person trying to be a little more active. But if you get dolled up in all the sports gear, it’s embarrassing and it puts a lot of pressure on the fatty standing in them- I’ve got all the gear, should I hop or throw in a little leap somwhere? Perhaps I should be stretching?

I’ll admit, I’m paranoid about going to a gym, a yoga or palates class and have a general aversion to runners that I can’t explain. Moving however, can be done in thongs (my absolute favourite- it’s the Australian in me), slippers or no shoes at all. Just get a bit hot and sweaty!

Don’t worry about the slight whiff of B.O. : In the words of Kate Moss, “Nothing smells like skinny feels…”

I’m sure that’s what she said….

Ticking Along

Water Consumption…Tick.

22 Point (Weight Watchers) Food Consumption…Tick.

Tracking aforementioned consumption like “skinny girl gone mad”…Tick.

Just to recap folks; tick, tick, tick!

I’m already sensing the roar of applause as I suck in flabby tummy and stand tall on the scales this week. And yes, I am aware that the “suck-and-stretch” doesn’t make me lighter according to the metric system but it does make me feel good.

Oh, and in regards to the walking. I didn’t get out there today but managed some really good incidental exercise (as we say in the biz)! Scrubbing on all fours not only gets all those little nook and crannies clean, it gets a great sweat up and manages to entertain the toolman no end (imagine larger than life bottom bouncing up and down as I really put some elbow into it)!

Wasted Weeks and White Roll Redemption

February has been a period of blatant teenage-inspired petulance. For the last three weeks I have been “doing” weight watchers but unlike the months gone past where I have been successfully losing weight, this month my energy has been spent on lies, manipulation and pointless negotiation. Such arguments between Me, Myself and I have included:

• Convincing myself that a packet of white fluffy rolls are ok, finding myself halfway through said packet, panicking, then running the remainder under the kitchen tap
• Telling myself that I should probably plateau at current weight, should new, cheap flimsy dress sit loosely on ample bosom rather than stretch across appealingly (so mistaken on all fronts!)
• Presenting what I thought was a very convincing argument: I’ll get fitter and exercise after I’ve lost weight; I’ll lose weight after I exercise….hmmm
• It’s perfectly justified to eat lunch after a five hour fast, so it’s equally valid to have a light meal at midnight seeing as the last time I ate was 7pm…my body needs it, I’m telling you!; And the real cracker
• Berating myself for not moving enough whilst finding comfort under a fuffy doona; “Ah…num, num, num, num….”

All this energy spent lying to myself only helps to maintain my current weight and therefore my unhappiness and ultimately, a sense of failure. Why oh why would I be so self destructive? There are those that eat well, exercise, read, talk and socialise with confidence. To you, Congrats! There are so many of us though that choose our poison, hell bent on preserving the status quo. The toolman is very good at recognising these toxic patterns in his life and annoyingly and consciously works towards breaking these shackles…which only serves to highlight my inadequacies.

Then again, he’s my husband and I’m happy for him and his highly evolved state…umm yeah…absolutely…

So this week, I’m breaking it down so even an ape couldn’t get it wrong. It’s shameful that I’ve got this low (and I can hear even the dearest of loved ones sighing with exasperation) but it’s all I can do to get the momentum going. There’s nothing witty or clever about it; diarising the most basic of tasks certainly doesn’t make for good reading. For those of you whom understandably couldn’t be less interested in my goals for this week, LOOK AWAY NOW:

• Walk! Four times, four hours, would be lovely.
• Limit food consumption to 20 points (Weight Watchers System)
• Track food consumption like “skinny girl gone mad”
• Drink 2L of that scrumptious stuff we call mineral water (without the ginger wine snuck in would be an added bonus)!

So if you happen to stumble upon a snoozing Hauling, permission to propel foot up enormous bum granted. And if you see me strolling through suburban streets on Wednesday with a gorgeous Eurasian baby, I’m exercising, not pretending he’s mine…

Note to concerned over-eating anonymous professionals: You don’t need to tell me, there will be no more rolls passing across the threshold of my front door.

Farewell My Ovaries

Today I found myself experiencing a series of embarrassing medical examinations, all in an attempt to find my ovaries. They (my ovaries that is) are two of those things I just assumed were there, enjoying the cushy environment I have supplied them. Apparently not so.

At midnight last night I could be found shoving a hot cross bun in my gob as the panic of a 12 hour “fast” approached. I even woke my husband to ask him, “I’ve got to fast till 1 o’clock tomorrow afternoon for my blood tests. Do you think I can make it?”

“Of course”, he said. And of course, I did. I arrived for my blood tests on time and explained politely to the nice lady that she should expect to have to try at least twice as my veins are notoriously difficult. She peered and prodded at me for a minute and informed me quite innocently that my veins aren’t the problem; they’re just hard to get to, being so deep under the fat and all.

Slap. Slap.

Next stop was through the door marked Ultrasound. Not the warm-gooey-on-your-stomach type that brings tingles to the skin with the thought of a little one. Oh no, this is the Star Wars Lightsaber, humiliation variety. For all those women who have been spared this experience, Mozeltoff. For those who have not, I feel your pain.

The lady was very nice, I’ll give her that. But whilst she tried to distract me with talk of the weather, I really wish she would have kept her perfectly painted lips together. I was all too aware that she was going where no woman had gone before and I half expected to hear the “pshhhhewwwww-pshhhhewwww” of Luke Skywalker in the corner, when the whole episode climaxed in my sheer panic. All because she offhandedly commented,

“I’m having a little trouble finding your ovary. It’s all very odd”.

Great. Brilliant. She continued to ask me a series of questions, all resulting in the same anxiety, “Would you describe the pain as stabbing or dull? (Just emotional scars at this stage). Have you had trouble finding your ovaries before? (Ummm, yes, we often dabble in a little hide and seek). Do your knees go any wider? (Can you buy me a drink first?)”

I’m not even joking about the last one. The thing that really got me going was the deep exhalation and long sigh-hhhhhhhhhhhhhhh she finished the examination with. And whilst the dull dread that sat with me all morning was really about the fact that this anonymous lady may judge the size of my thighs, when I left I realised that some worries are actually bigger than the size of my girth.

So this Valentines Day I hope for a surprise card…posted direct from a pair of hiding ovaries…