The Weight Loss Program

Of the time the blogger was compelled to take a good hard look in the mirror…Literally.

[Note: The following post offers horrendous insight into the blogger’s lazy-ass mind. This particular piece could very well be a figment of her imagination. Or it could be wholly true. Maybe. Could be. Sorta. Kinda.]

I am a slob. It’s true. I revel in being a lazy bum. Physical fitness is pretty much taking my plate from the dining room to the kitchen sink; & that takes me twenty minutes. I am not trying to be funny here, merely stating a fact.

Mr. Good Looks is quite the Speedy Gonzales when it comes to eating. The man literally wolfs down his meals & is done in ten minutes flat. I, on the other hand take my time with food- like I do with most other things. I will savour each morsel I put in my mouth, revel in its myriad flavours, analyse it in delightful abandon before swallowing it. I’ve already discussed at great length in a previous post, my absolute devotion towards food, so I’m going to summarise it here without going into too much detail.

I live to eat; don’t know when to stop; & almost always overdo it. So when Mr. Good Looks finishes his meal, I’m barely half-way through my first helping, with at least two more to follow. It is therefore an obvious fact that I cannot get up from the table for the next twenty minutes after my meal. Which suits our arrangement fine – I lay the table & he cleans up after!

Unfortunately, our enthusiastic friend takes the ‘clean up’ to another level altogether. The minute he is done, he almost always clears the table with fiendish alacrity. Once I’d just about put the last morsel in my mouth, when he snatched the plate from under my nose, leaving me stunned. Now any sane person who knows me a little, (which by the way I’d like to add, that the husband does- knows me, that is); knows that coming between me & my food is like trying to wrestle a bone out of a Rottweiler’s mouth. That day we almost came to blows. I mean, you can’t take away a gal’s slice of heaven without retribution right?! Since then, our man always makes a huge production out of asking me if I’m done with my meal, before he clears the table. And just to rile him, I help myself to some more. (Yeah right!! That’s exactly why I eat more!) 

Anyway, the obvious result of such gluttony began manifesting in uhhh… more physical forms. I got decidedly rounder & Mr. Good Looks was clearly too much of a gentleman or too in love with me, to say a word! (See I say too much in love; it could very well be too scared of my snarky tongue!)  If I was having difficulty breathing in my denims, it was because they were fresh out of the laundry; if I looked like a beached whale against whom my Greek God posed, then it was just a badly taken photograph. Any querulous “Have I put on weight?” questions were met with a stoic “You’re fine” response; or on days he felt compelled to try honesty, “Just a little, but you’ll lose it if you work out”.

My moment of truth however, came when the husband was away on a project. Have I mentioned that he is a pilot? But not the commercial kind. (More on that later in great detail, I suspect.)

So, it’s a gorgeous lazy afternoon and I’ve just tucked away a week’s supply of fresh produce & animals; when the phone rings on the first floor. I was expecting an important call, so I attempted to bolt up the stairs to take it. By the time I reached, the phone had stopped ringing- of course; & I was panting like a steam engine. (Another interesting analogy comes to mind, but I tread the path of the politically righteous today.) There I stood, top button on the trousers undone, clutching my gut, eyes glazed over and I turned around to catch my reflection in the mirror.

Ouch! Not pretty! Not even a little- well maybe a little, to a kind onlooker with a gimpy leg & a lazy eye. But not to me!  Something had to be done. Clearly! But given the fact that I have the attention span of a puppy & the perseverance levels of a cheetah, (Note: Fastest creature on land & all that, but after the initial burst, gives up the chase too soon) it was clearly going to be an uphill climb.

So, I decided to do what I do best. I’m a thinker & a planner. I usually over-think myself into a tizzy & plan copiously, with the rare occurrence of an actual implementation. Out came my diary, (at any point, I have about five lying around) & I began to maintain a daily log; food intake, number of minutes of work-out etc.

And it must have been a moment of perfect celestial alignment when I began, because I’m on day eight & going fairly strong. Remarkable restraint is being exercised with respect to food. I do a thirty-five minute power workout; & the amount I sweat is most gratifying. My saintly husband of the discreet ways, has ordered me a digital weighing scale for perspective & provides daily words of encouragement on the phone. I can now run 2kms without feeling like I’m going to burp my heart out of my mouth; & that for me is a fairly big accomplishment too. Tiny steps, but I’m getting there.

At a time such as this, the tiny people in my fragile head are laying a wager as to how long I’ll last. To tip the scales in their favour, they remind me of a quote from the Merchant of Venice:

“The fiend is at mine elbow and tempts me, saying to me, “Gobbo,” “Launcelot Gobbo,” “Good Launcelot,” or “Good Gobbo,” or “Good Launcelot Gobbo” —“use your legs, take the start, run away.” My conscience says, “No. Take heed, honest Launcelot. Take heed, honest Gobbo,” or as aforesaid, “Honest Launcelot Gobbo, do not run. Scorn running with thy heels.”

 But I shall persist! And I shall become the queen of fitness! And I shall prevail! And I shall be successful! And several other such grandiose statements…

[Dear God,

 I hope I persist!!! I hope I prevail! I don’t know about queen of fitness, but not looking like a baby elephant would help greatly too!

Yours in covert prayer,

The Irreverent One]