Tag Archives: over eating

Well, Well, Well…

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Well well well, what do we have here? I’ve found it increasingly difficult to recognize my own good self recently. My “go-getter” status has definitely reached a new high, depending on who you ask of course. In actual fact, I seem to be slowly but surely morphing into my father.

When this afternoon I was daydreaming about my newly purchased attachment for the garden hose (do you know what those things can do these days?) and found myself calling my husband to see if he could bring home an empty milk bottle so that I might concoct a home made dripper for my basil, I realized I’d gone too far.

I wasn’t quite ready to tear myself away, so whilst I watered (the mist nozzle really gets me going by the way), I considered whether I actually had tipped over the “cat-lady-rose-bush-croc-wearing” line.

The funny thing is that like a mysterious beast of prey, you wouldn’t know what I was truly capable of upon meeting me; that I would be daydreaming about giving the corn (yes corn!) a good mulch and crying with delight when I found a worm in the compost. Unfortunately I live only a few kilometres from the city of Melbourne and therefore live with what could most generously be described as a large courtyard with a small lawn.

I grew up in the city but find that I move ever so gently, year by year, towards being a woman I would have never thought I would know. The vain city girl still lives strong; the biggest indicator of which is evident in all the fantasies I have about moving to a more rural area.

My fantasies always involve a great set of pins in tight jeans, bouncy hair and (I can hear the collective sigh of us fat girl now), a beautiful shirt tucked in to said jeans. Ah….the serenity…

Unfortunately little dreams don’t manifest themselves, so in the last few days, I’ve stepped into a new world, hoping to help me get back on track. Anyone following my weight loss would see, blaringly obviously, that I haven’t lost any significant weight in some time.

The difference in my appearance has motivated many to comment positively on how I look, inadvertently resulting in a release on the weight loss accelerator. But well aware of a job half done, I decided to take up a free trial at my local gym.

Not so much a gym as it is an oestrogen laden, sweat soaked women’s group, where middle aged gals doodle their way through a serious of hydraulic machines, enjoying a good dose of Abba coming through the speakers.

Needless to say, when I walked in, I knew instantly that it was the place for me to be. Free trial up and a decision about joining imminent, I went in today to complete my final workout free of charge. It was only when a woman walked in, donned in lycra and a sweat band rolled and tied around her forehead, all coordinated of course, I realised that I couldn’t possibly be more comical than that and would therefore be quite happy there.

Unfortunately joining seems to be more difficult that one would expect. You need to make an appointment for a fitness assessment, at which point I’m sure I’ll be sold all sorts of pointless gym-ing paraphernalia. When I finished my final trial, I walked up seriously to the young girl behind the desk,

“Now I’ve decided that I would like to join. I think this could work for me”

“Well, you have to book in for your assessment. Tomorrow’s no good, Friday’s no good. Why don’t you call next week?”

My face dropped. I had half expected a brass band to emerge from the staff room with a personalised congratulatory rendition of It’s Raining Men, every girls’ power song (C’mon, you know it is!). Alas, nothing; not even a discrete applause. It put me off enough to consider backing out.

But some places you have to get to on your own. And it could be the crazy in me, but lately I’ve been carrying my own little orchestra inside anyway…

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Case of the Lost Bowl

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There’s a television show currently screening on Australian television which has, as the critics say, “taken the country by storm”. Masterchef Australia fits the formula replicated around the world; contestants, judges and unsuspecting fruits and vegetables get carved up for our viewing pleasure each week night. My family and friends know that I am not a fan of the show. The judges repel my ethical sensibilities as they shovel food into their mouths, with the short bald one sweating as he does so, and I can’t help but picture the many starving around the world who would give their left leg to be so greedy. I probably wouldn’t be as offended if the judges were skinny and looked like they needed a good feed; it’s simply the excess that makes me feel uncomfortable and if I’m honest (which I usually am) the mirrored image that stares back at me…

That aside, I should admit that I do love cooking, although I rarely cook from a cookbook. The best explanation of this is that I have less interest in the actual recipe and flavours than I do with the preparing of it. As I’ve said before, I’m the third generation of good female cooks who can instinctively whip up a curry and I don’t recall my mother ever declaring as she served up my dinner, “the beef is the real hero on the plate darling”. Nor do I remember describing my food as being “eclectic” or “brave”. The thing that really tips me over the edge is when contestants describe their food as “honest”.

Really? Honest? Did that chocolate pudding tell you what a dill you are then? But admittedly I am predisposed to a rant and I’m also predisposed to use psychological rhetoric which I suspect also makes me appear rather arrogant. Maybe “honest food” is the equivalent to an “anal stage of motivational development”?

What they don’t talk about on the show is the growing girth of the judges and I suspect the growing waistlines of the many fans who rush out to replicate the dishes made on the show each night. I was only too aware of my rather rolly-polly waist when the toolman and I were watching our favourite show at the moment; United States of Tara (the toolman likes to see a couple with a wife “crazier” than me I suspect).

I was happy lying at my end (as couples know, we have our ends) and was conscious of the fact I was lying on the remote. A good twenty minutes later I shot up with a gasp.

“What’s wrong baby?” the toolman got a fright, such was my exclamation.

“Omigosh…I can’t believe it….I’m humongous!”

The realization had occurred slowly. I was watching the screen when out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the remote on the coffee table. If the remote was on the coffee table, then it couldn’t be under me. Whatever it was felt quite cool against my side. Then I saw the toolman’s dessert bowl sitting next to the remote. Where was my bowl and spoon?…….And then BOOM! I realized I was lying on it, actually lying on it.

“I’m so huge I can’t even feel crockery when I am lying on it! It was stuck between my rolls! People should tell me to stand up and shake when they can’t find their car keys!” I was distraught but then I fell into giggles.

A fellow blogger and “fan” of my blog told me this week to remind myself of the good things I do each week and I think she had a point. Yes, crockery got lost in my blubber and I didn’t even realise it was there and yes, add to that the loss of actually gaining weight this week and the result looks glum. But this week, I’m going to let it ride and have a laugh about it.

Now if I was a dish on Masterchef, do you think they would call be “brave”?

The High Point of Lows

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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

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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.

Wasted Weeks and White Roll Redemption

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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.