Well tonight would usually be weigh-in night, but as it’s a bank holiday we’re not meeting. So I have no idea how I’ve done this week … according to my scales at home it’s another 4 lbs but I just don’t trust them so I’m going to have to hold on. Although, knowing me and my impatience, I’ll be on and off those bloody scales like a flea in a fit all week until I get weighed. Grrr …
This week has been slightly topsy turvy as my mother is in hospital, so that’s been the main focus of my attention since my last post. In terms of the diet, I’m still sticking to it religiously (twelve whole weeks completed now!) but I have to say that it’s getting more difficult by the day. Not impossibly difficult, just noticeably harder. Obviously I’m now considerably smaller than I was twelve weeks ago … over 4 stone lighter and nearly 4 dress sizes smaller. The difference visually is quite staggering. I can honestly say that I feel ‘normal’, whatever the definition of normal might be. As my Mum put it, ‘you don’t look like a fat person anymore, you don’t walk like a fat person anymore, you’re not a fat person anymore’. That, I think, is what’s making it harder to stick to the diet. It would be very easy at this point to become complacent and think ‘oh, what the hell … I’ve achieved so much, so what’s a bit of extra weight?’.
I have to keep reminding myself that, although I could comfortably live my life at the weight I’ve achieved now (to a certain degree), I’ve not reached that all important target of a healthy BMI and a healthy weight. I’ve got to keep going. There is another incentive … for some reason, although the rest of my body has reduced accordingly, there has been no change in my calves whatsoever. Don’t ask me how or why. This means that if I so much as try a skirt on, I’m confronted with a huge pair of knees with what looks like tree trunks attached to them. Just horrible! So I have to tell myself that unless I wish to live and die in jeans, then more weight has to go. Knowing my luck I’ll end up with matchstick arms and still have the thickest calves known to man … but I have to try!
So I’m gritting my teeth (to prevent anything sneaking past them) and getting on with it.
The clothing situation was getting increasingly dire towards the end of the week, so I had to buy more interim clothes. I’m hoping that these will last a bit longer (particularly on my top half) because it’s not only expensive to keep replacing things, but I actually really like some of the clothes that I can buy now. The onset of poverty was kept slightly at bay by the fact that I had a 30% discount voucher for Gap. Now, I’ve not shopped in Gap since we used to buy baggy cardigans in there for a fiver when I was about fifteen. In fact, as the Boy pointed out, I still refer to it as ‘the Gap’, which apparently makes me very old and farty indeed. Well, I was delighted to say that I successfully purchased two pairs of trousers in there and a small assortment of tops, felt very chuffed with myself (everything in there seems to come in a size 6 or 8 and not much else) and saved lots of cash. Hurrah. This also means that the emergency shirts that I was holding on to have been resigned to the charity pile … I really did look like a sack of spuds when I put them on. At this rate I’ll need to hire a van simply to get rid of all my old clothes, unless I hold an impromptu jumble sale in the street outside.
In theory, from tomorrow I’m on ‘milk week’. Government guidelines state that you can’t do a VLCD like lighter life for more than twelve weeks without a break. For that reason, I’m supposed to drink a litre and a half of milk every day for the next seven days. There’s one small problem. I detest milk to the point that I’m almost phobic about it. I still have nightmares about being forced to drink lukewarm bottles of it at primary school (a torture that was only halted when I inevitably vomited on my form teacher one blissful day … I had special dispensation to have lemon squash from then on). I’ve not touched a drop of the stuff since. Even watching other people drink it makes me feel nauseous. So real milk is out of the question. I promised my counsellor that I’d try soya or rice milk (my stomach is turning at the thought) so I’m going to brace myself to do that. And if not, then I’m sticking to the programme as it is. I’ve always been quite rebellious, and this diet has tested the limits of my obedience to the maximum. Milk, frankly, is a step too far. Even pretend cow juice and not the real thing … ugh.
So, with disappointing non-news about any weight loss, week thirteen begins. Only nine more to go!