Warnings from my waistband

It's been brought to my attention that I've been slacking on the blog front lately...

Waist: What IS your problem girlie?
Me: Dunno. I'm just not in the blogging, slimming zone.  I've lost my mojo. I just couldn't give a toffee about slimming right now.
Waist: Well it's not good enough Tubster. You know the pattern. You get grumpy about gaining weight, then you eat crap because you're grumpy about it, and before you know it the fat pants are out.
Me: You're right, I do, and sadly, they are. The fat pants are back in town. Not the 20s, but the 18s.
Waist: Well, you know what Inner Bitch would say if she was here, don't you?
Me: Yeah, but I've banished her from giving me a hard time. I'm trying to be nicer to myself. Geneen told me I should.
Waist: Well, I think you may have taken the niceness a little too far. I'm advocating some tough love.
Me: But it's dark, it's cold and my squirrel DNA is telling me I need an extra layer for winter. And I don't do  tough love.
Waist: Well I do, so get off your lardy and go buy some veg. I tried to warn you last week but you didn't listen. Looks like I'll need need to ramp up the guerilla tactics to make you listen.
Me: So it was you that popped the button on my trousers in Sainsbury's the other day? You lousy...
Waist: Yup. Had to do something drastic. You were stockpiling enough chocolate in your trolley to see a normal person through a nuclear winter.
Me: Bugger. Thought no-one saw me.
Waist: I'm on to you lady! Consider the button incident a friendly warning. And be thankful I didn't do it in the freezer aisle.

Just as beautiful or missing the point completely?

Image via Wikipedia

"I'm Just as Beautiful as you, rake face!"

The launch of Just as Beautiful, the UK's first magazine aimed at 'curvy girls', certainly got the media flapping their bingo wings lately.

Now, if I'm honest, I've got a love-hate relationship with women's magazines. I'm nosy enough to read them from time to time, but I can't be bothered with pages of fashion or the mating habits of so-called celebrities (no, I still can't use the word celeb without having a gag reflex) - non-entities more like. And with every titbit of interesting, I find I'm forced to choke on a generous side of clap-trap. How to get a man, how to keep a man, what to do when your man shags your best mate,  how to rescue your man's libido, and then just when you think you can't possibly be enlightened any more, the trumpcard: you don't need a man, you're just wonderful all on your tod!

Well thank you very much for validating my existence.

But I digress. All I really wanted to do was flag up the latest fly-swatter to hit the news stands: JUST AS BEAUTIFUL. It's a magazine with solely plus-size models. It can't be just me that thinks the title couldn't have been any more patronising if it tried. I mean, how condescending sounding is that?!

Call me cynical, but it looks sneakily like the fashion world's answer to the size 0 backlash, and it sounds something like: "No we won't put fuller (read normal) figured models in regular magazines, but over here on the sidelines you can wallow around in your giant fat pants and big yourselves up as much as you like. Now get off our case!"

Meanwhile, over in The Economist, a magazine that is worthy of the trees that sacrificed themselves for its existence, I read that scientific tests have revealed that a group of mice (which are nocturnal) fed during the day gained 50% more weight than a group fed in darkness, suggesting a possible link between weight gain and mammals' natural metabolic cycles. Scientists are now wondering whether we might all be slimmer if we didn't eat after dark.

What I want to know now is - does the light of the refrigerator door count?

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Priorities

Image by National Media Museum via Flickr

Three more lbs and I'll be RICH! RICH I tell you!

I'm flagging.
It's this change of season you see. The leaves falling, the diminishing hours of daylight, the cold and rain and the inevitable giant gas bill that goes with it. Pardon me if I just can't get thrilled about it.

Some good news would be grand. But no, it's just one big diet of cuts, despair and shite weather. I was half way through my Shreddies yesterday morning when Bill Turnbull announced I was now inhabiting the fifth fattest nation in the world, and the fattest in Europe.

So what's the solution, Bill?

Well, apparently, one of the big giant heads on the BBC sofa thinks it'd be a great wheeze if the taxpayer paid the nation's tubbies to lose weight. You know, like cash incentives.

Fantastic! I'm going to set out my stall right now...

"Roll up, roll up, get your lard here. A bargain at only £100/lb! Can't say fairer than that. This is well matured lard we're talking about, not your common or garden spare tyre."

If it goes well, I'll be able to fit into my not so teeny weeny yellow polka dot bikini and high tail it to the Bahamas before the clocks change. Ahhhh, bliss.

Yes, maybe I had this government all wrong. Maybe there is something to be said for our 'let's not take any responsibility for ourselves' culture after all.

What? They're not going to roll this out in Scotland? Meanies.

Cake, hope and charity.

Image by HowardLake via Flickr

Did you know that when you eat cake for charity it has no calories?

That's right, none at all. 

So the yummy slice of chocolate cake I gobbled this morning in aid of Macmillan Cancer Support was particularly enjoyable.

What a cracking fundraising idea too. 


Can't believe I haven't been along to one sooner. 


Thanks to Fay at Leith Open Space for tipping me off!

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If aliens landed...

 Saw this product on a facebook ad today.
It's a babygrow you sleep in so your fake tan doesn't get all over your sheets.

WTF?!!!

Come get me when the spaceship lands. I want to be there to explain the subtleties of human absurdity to our extraterrestrial guests.

"No Zorg, they are not children. They are adults in babygrows. Streaky, tangerine-stained adults. And as for why some of us are lardier than others, well I can recommend this blog..."

Jenny Craig, you've got to be kidding?

Image by OwenBlacker via Flickr

Thinning hair, Jenny Craig diet?
Oh dear Cheryl, what's it going to be next? Piles?

I'm gobsmacked. Apparently some fatties really do sign up for the Jenny Craig diet. 

The telly ad's a psychological masterpiece too. Cue Cheryl Baker complaining that x months ago she looked like a pudding (or was it a sausage?) but now thanks to the Jenny Craig programme, she's lost gazillions of pounds. Yipee, good for you Cheryl. (Just please don't sing.)

So Cheryl, tell me, how is it working for you? Do tell!

"Well, it's simple, I don't have to do or think about anything. I just get meals on wheels." 

What? Are you out of your plastic-wrapped, calorie-controlled F***s Fizzed mind?

I know we all have our own weird and wonderful reasons for putting on weight, I do, really I do.  But until Tesco is nuked and the Star Trek replicator becomes the norm, I'll hold vice-like to the view that taking just the tiniest bit of responsibility for what I shove down my cakehole is the grown up thing to do. 


I hate food shopping. It's dull and lethal when you're hungry, but I'd rather guerrilla-fight my way down the chocolate aisle and take my chances than be condemned, yes CONDEMNED to an existence of pre-packed budgie food that even the couriers must be embarrassed to deliver.


Am I being too harsh?  Perhaps Cheryl Baker is just the glamorous, mumsy advertising face of Jenny Craig, and not in any way representative of their real clientele? That must be it. Because unless you are a poor soul who needs a winch to hoist you from the sofa to the kitchen, why on Gandalf's green earth would you do a diet like this? 


But let's just suppose you do decide to chuck in your last shred of self respect and sign up.  What happens when you reach your goal weight? When you've GPS'd the last quinoa grain on the last environmentally evil plastic platter, and you're wrenched from the bosom of mother Jenny to fend for yourself. What then? 


Yes, that's right, slim one, it's only a matter of time.


Temptation is patient. 


MOOOHHHHWWWWWHHHHAAAAAAAHHHAAA! 




Bon weekend!

Cake - the ultimate cure?

Image via Wikipedia

Your time will come George.
Just wait till I finish this cake...

I've got wicked neck pain and a persistent headache. It's not how I wanted to start the week. It'd be worth it if I'd earned it fighting ninja turtles or baiting George Osborne but I'm apparently suffering for no good reason at all. Bummer.


What's more, it's making me want to scoff comfort food like there's no tomorrow. Cake, chocolate, you name it, if it's stodgy, I want it. I've already had some toast washed down with tea and some mega ibuprofen and I've been hovering vulture-like in the kitchen on and off all morning. 
Geneen Roth, if I read her book right, encourages the 'emotional eaters' who attend her Breaking Free workshops to eat what they want when they want it, even if it means gaining weight in the short term. Ultimately, she believes, this lead to successful long term weight loss and control.  
Sounds eminently sensible to me (having just scoffed a giant wedge of sponge cake).


However, if the fridge is empty by 5pm, I'll be having words with Ms Roth. I'm all for a bit of research but...


PS. It's National Cupcake Week too. What terrific timing. ;-)

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Facing up to it

Last week I had my face hoovered.

OK, so face-hoovering isn't the technical term. The beauty elves call it a microdermabrasion facial, but I'm not fooled. (I always suspected Dyson were up to something when they moved their factory to Malaysia.) 

Anyway, TBF gave me a voucher to try it for my birthday. She came along too and, having survived one before, gamely offered to go in first.

I sat outside waiting for the screams, taking note of all available exits. 'Why didn't I wear trainers?'

But for half an hour all I heard was a low buzzing suctiony sound and an occasional giggle so I figured she would probably pull through.

TBF finally emerged - relaxed and radiant!

So it was my turn. First a nice cooling gel, and then.... 

Wooooosh, woosh, wooooosh!

I could feel the wee crystals blasting away the dead skin cells, sooking them up, and returning my face to the baby-bottomed softness of its youth.  As it was all going so well, I figured I might as well ask...

"Any chance you could adios my double chin while you're at it?' 

Unable to see her reaction with my eye mask on, I assume the nervous giggle was Beauty-Elf-ese for:  "It's a facial, not a miracle, you daft old bat".

But you know what, it was pretty darn effective. I'd even go so far as to say it was worth it. In fact the scariest thing about the whole experience turned out to be reading Heat magazine while I was waiting. 
So perhaps I will yet be persuaded to embrace my inner girly girl. For I may be lardy, and there is no escaping the fact that I am 42, but goddamn it if I haven't got the best hoovered face this side of the River Forth. 

Bite me Britney!

A dose of the midlifes

Image via Wikipedia

I'm 42 tomorrow.

How did that happen? Just yesterday I was 28.

Anyway, I'm worried that the treacle-like cloak of blah-ness that's clinging to me this week might just be the cusp of a mid-life crisis.

So by way of exorcism, here are the facts:

1. I can't stop dreaming about running off to exotic locations. Two nights ago it was trekking in Peru, and last night I was cruising down the Nile with Mr Slimma on a feluka... until I woke up with a rather pressing urge to pee. (Darn that 10pm cup of tea!).

2. I am increasingly indecisive about the stupidest stuff, and no, not just once a month. Gormlessly gaping into cupboards, I agonise: Shreddies or Bran Flakes? Black socks or blue? 

3. I shout at the news - a lot.

But on a more positive note:

1. This rise in grumpy old woman tendencies seems quite fitting for a bespectacled, comfortable shoe and anorak wearing soul like myself. Perhaps I'm just getting comfortable in my skin. Perhaps this is really who I am?  Anyway, I am for the first time ever IN FASHION. Yes, hem watchers, geek fashion is where it's at this season!

2. Indecisiveness may be paralysing, but my frustration at the same old same old has begun to open up a whole new world of possibilities. If not Shreddies, what? Dammit, the whole cereal aisle is my oyster!  And just think what might happen if I wore red socks today!

3. The news does not answer back, which is terrifically empowering.

So....mid-life crisis? Nah, I don't think the label fits.

And it's not the only label that doesn't fit. Remind me, why did I jubilantly chuck out my fat pants earlier this year?

----------------------------------

Blogging (and therefore slimming!)  will recommence no doubt after I've eaten my way out of the birthday blues - See you next week!

Half baked evolution

I'm working in my favourite local cafe, just had a great meeting and I'm now coveting a cinnamon bun.

God I love cinnamon buns, in all their stodgy baked loveliness. But I'm not so wild about the calories and fat content. Whoever thought that was a good idea? Why can't lettuce be bad for you, or gherkins or brussel sprouts (the ultimate evil). WHY?

I know I'm not ever going to get a sensible answer to that, but I do question the workings of the universe on this issue. We evolved to use our enormous human brains to invent baking did we not? Surely that's worth some kind of ingenuity reward, not the punishment of a spare tyre and a fast-track ticket to heart disease?

I've got it written down in my 'Questions to ask if I ever get to the pearly gates' petition.

In the meantime, I've got a bun to eat.

Come here my lovely! Mmmmmmm.

Cheese please

I have a yearning for cheese. Lots of cheese. This will have to do.

Cunning, this thinking out of the box slimming, eh? eh?

See you next week.

Wrap up your troubles...

I've got the low-down-humphing-about-and-what-the-hell-is-going-on-with-the-weather-anyway-blues. One minute it's clammy, the next it's chilly. Seems like before I've even had the chance to parade about in my wide-leg-linen trousers, the boots and woollies will be out, and summer will once again feel a brief and disappointing fling.

And it's not just me who's giving in to a bit of seasonal moaning. Scotland's grannies are really going for it (shit, what does that say about me?). If I hear 'the nights are fair drawing in' one more time, I'm going to have to chime in with my best 'Aye, and we're all DOOMED, Captain Manwaring, DOOMED!'

No, that'll never do. In true Monty Python tradition, I will take the high road and look on the bright side (now wasn't that cliche-tastic!). After all, I'll be wheeling out my trusty blue anorak soon - that crumply practical burka that spits in the face of fashion and provides safe haven for my most disobedient wobbly bits. Thank heavens I never chucked it out in March in a premature fit of slimma-girl zeal!

Seems I'm not the only one longing for her winter wardrobe, either. One London dwelling pal is getting pant-wettingly excited about the prospect of her winter garb and, get this, wearing tights! Now is it just me, or is that plain wrong?

Oh well, no idea where I was going with this but I feel much better now. A weather winge shared is clearly a weather winge halved.

And to be fair, the nights ARE fair...

It's written in the stars!

I'm a sucker for astrology. Or ass-trology as someone I once knew referred to it. And you know, I never really realised what a deep and meaningful insight that was until today.

Always on the lookout for sensible ways to lose lard, I decided to consult the 'Oracle'. That's TheTimes' in-house astrologist Shelley von Strunckel, in case you've been orbiting blindfolded on an asteroid in the Delta quadrant for the past decade or so. After all, she was spot on about those w**ker bankers.

And Pluto be damned, turns out she really DOES know everything:

"Although the Virgo New Moon doesn't actually take place for two weeks, you've nothing to lose by meditating on certain persistent issues."

Persistent issue eh? Well, that can only mean my lardy posterior. It's pretty damn persistent. Meditate, you say, Shell? Hmm, I reckon I could do that.

Yes, indeed...

For two weeks I shall 'meditate' my ass off!

Back from the brink?

It's been a while. And there's a reason for that. I fell off the flabfighting wagon, and flew giant-bum-first into a lorry en-route to the Cadbury factory.

Being buried in several tons of giant chocolate buttons aint easy. It took 4 months and regaining loadsaweight to escape (no, I have not yet dared face the piercing mockery of Chardonnay, my trusty scales).

But I'm not back here begging for sympathy. What would be the point?

Instead, I've decided to tune back in to my groaning body and once and for all try to get to the bottom of my self-sabotaging behaviour. What I discover, I will share. Inner Bitch is already back on board with her usual barrage of criticism. Inner Goddess is currently nowhere in sight. So for now, blog, it's just you and me. Just you and me.

Of course, if any of you flabbusters are still out there, and still give a flying Frys chocolate cream about my waistband, lurk and (even better) comment at will!

More as it flows...

Lettuce anyone?

So that's what friends are for!

Happy Easter flabbusting fans.

I'm slightly annoyed to report that since Feb my weight loss mission has ground to a halt. I've just not been in the mood to blog, or even to think about weight in any way, let alone write about it. Fortunately I haven't gained any weight. I'm still a genrous 14stone 7lb. Small mercies and all that!

I'm really here because Tubby Best Friend (TBF) who, by the way, has been losing weight like a trouper and is a whole stone lighter now (yay!) , gave me a Paddington Bear hard stare and a bit of a talking to over Easter.

I'm not sure if it was troughing a family sized bag of dorritos (Chilli Heatwave, mmmm) without drawing breath or one of my subtler clues, like asking the waiter to outline the dimensions of the 'Banofee Tower' on the desert menu, or discovering that one can easily do justice to an easter egg and a chocolate cake in the space of an hour and a half, that tipped her off, but let's just say...

I've been rumbled!

It's not that she yells you out. She's MUCH more cunning than that. She just peers at your fry-up from the safety of her Special K, declines a second glass of wine, and glows with the pride that only a slimmer who can suddenly cross her thighs without chafing can ever know.

Yes, it's a fact. TBF is now the undisputed master of psychological slimming warfare.

So here I am. Shamed into submission, ready to step away from the easter eggs and get back onto some kind of non-dieting slimming track.

Once more into the breach TBF!

I'll aim for a blog a week, two if I'm on a roll. If you're stil here, thanks for reading. Please leave your comments. I sure could use the encouragement.

The power of acting 'as if'

I've read a lot about this acting 'as if' technique. Like acting slim before you are slim, acting confident even when you don't feel it. Supposedly the more you act, the quicker you'll get where you want to be. It means stepping outside your comfort zone.

I figured I was doing quite well, looking in the mirror and telling myself I didn't mind what I saw. But then I saw these Avatar fans and realised my idea of stretching my comfort zone is, well, a tad modest to say the least...

Wake up call

I hate it when I whine and mope. It gives me ugly frown lines and, it appears, stops the pounds falling off. Am I just imagining that? Nope, the scales (sadly) don't lie. Since coming back from my ski holiday a month ago I've been more than a tad grumpy about life (read 'miserable old bag') and, would you look at that, I've only lost a pound!

I can't help feeling there's a connection, so I decided to take it up with the Universe. (I've always hated poor customer service)

Hey, I know I said I was not going to set myself time goals anymore but, as my blog is my witness, I don't remember saying I wanted my mission to grind to a virtual standstill. Give a girl a break!

'Stop your wingeing and it's a deal,' she said flatly.

'You're on!'

See, what I've been forgetting to do whilst preoccupied with my post holiday blues was to get up every morning and focus. Instead I've picked up a few of my old 'fat girl' habits: never looking in the mirror other than critically, not caring too much about my appearance, and forgetting to spend some time daily imagining how great it will be when I reach my goal size.

Blimey, if I can let it all go to hell in a handbasket in less than a month on the tide of a low mood, I'm going to have to be a whole lot more vigilent.

It's time to track down Inner Goddess and get her out of hiding.

Expect more blogs...

Beefed up

Yup, it's true. I've been a bit preoccupied and blogging has taken a back seat lately. Oops.

Unfortunately my back seat has taken this as a signal to spread out and make itself comfy.

Unimpressed, my jeans have staged an intervention.

Jeans: "FAT COW FAT COW FAT COW!"

Me: "What? Who?"

Jeans: "You heard us missus. You're doing it again. You've stopped listening to your body and Inner Goddess has obviously gone AWOL so we had no choice but to speak up. We're not going to let you do up that top button till you start 'thinking slim' again. It was working so well, why are you slacking off?"

Me: "Good question. Not sure. Other things on my mind, probably."

Jeans: All the more reason to get a grip then. Unless of course you WANT to look like that Kenny Everett sketch of Rod Stewart prancing around singing 'If you think I'm sexy' while his leopard skin pants inflate to they point they explode?"

Me: Good point, Jeans, good point. OK, I'll get back on the case tomorrow, I promise. But today's Valentines Day and Mr S is rustling up roast beef, Yorkshire Pud and all the trimmings. Oh, and there's cheesecake for afters.

Jeans: "Brace yourself lads, looks like we're in for another uncomfortable evening then!

Me: "Oh quit you're panicking. What do you think tracksuit pants were invented for? Sport?
. . . "oh yeah, once more from the top....If ya think I'm sexy..."

Snow blindness

You really can't beat a big mug of coffee and a mid morning muffin on a snowy day like today.

My line of work is not really a flabbuster's best ally. The temptation to snack, particularly in the winter months, is high, and with nobody around to wag a disapproving finger while I excavate the kitchen with Mr Slimma's trowel in search of digestives (hey, marrying an archaeologist does have some perks after all!), it's so easy to rationalise away the ugly truth that one is simply being piggy.

As it is, the trench I've just dug in the kitchen hasn't even unearthed a measly crumb. Rats!

Me: I need the energy to keep warm. Hypothermia could be just minutes away! What shall I do?

Inner Goddess: How about a nice piece of fruit?

Me: How about you stick your head in the oven and I bake it? This is serious! I'll need to brave the snow for supplies. I'll need to refuel at Starbucks so don't wait for me, I may be gone for some time...

Inner Goddess: Sure. Next you'll be telling me it's good exercise!

Braveheart

I'm SO good at it. Procrastinating, that is. Actually, I think I'd go as far as to say I'm a bit of an expert. That's why I only got round to weighing in a few days ago - for the first time since mid Dec.

'You've put on 4lb Tubster!' mocked Chardonnay. (What? Your scales don't have a name?)

Me: 'Hey, that's not bad at all, considering. That means I'm 14.10lb again. Waistband's a bit snugger than it was in December, but I expect that. Yup, I can live with that.'

Inner Bitch: 'You lazy trollope. You let yourself go. You think you can lose weight slowly and not count calories, go on holiday, eat jam donuts and mock the dieting fraternity. Who do you think you are?'

Me: 'I think I'm me, and bloomin lucky to be me, come to think of it. Didn't you catch the wave of loony January magazines promising miracle celeb-promoted regimes? Every year it's the same old rubbish. No wonder there's an obesity epidemic. Diets make you fat - especially the quick fix ones.'

Inner Bitch: 'Suit yourself, loser. But I'll be back. You need me.'

And in a funny way, I do. IBs never going to quit. I expect she'll pop up and grace me with her doom, gloom and cynicism, not to mention appalling dress sense, till the day I die.

But I'm getting more cunning in my old age. I may procrastinate, lapse, and fall off the wagon of health regularly, but I will never, ever again succumb to a diet.

You heard me IB, you can hide the donuts if you like, but you'll never take my FREEDOM!

AHHHHHHHHHHH!

A bum rush?

HA! I KNEW THERE WAS A PERFECTLY GOOD REASON TO FEAR LYCRA!

Also, listen out for some classic examples of British understatement from the commentator. A masterclass!

Under Investigation for a Crime in Phoenix @ Yahoo! Video

Gross oder klein? You decide!

Happy New Year flabfighting fans. It’s bloomin hard to get back to work after such a nice long break. What's more, something tells me my trusty scales are going to frown at my more than casual disregard for healthy living over the festive period.

Actually, Xmas wasn’t that bad, give or take half a sheep and a crate of Merlot. It’s last week in Austria that’s more worrying. It’s been a bit like starring in one long terrifying TV campaign by the British Heart Foundation…

Hot chocolate madam? With cream?

But of course my good man! (Nice lederhosen by the way. My that's a large...wallet)

Schnitzel? With potatoes or chips?

What sort of silly question is that?

Krapfen? (that’s jam donuts to you and me)

Ja, ja – give me two. I need to keep my energy up.

Beer. Large or small?

Do I look like I do anything small?

On the up side, skiing is supposed to be good exercise so, in the spirit of positive thinking, before I visit the scales this week, I’ve decided to give myself a big pat on the back and recognise a few of my newly acquired and expertly honed holiday skills:

• doing the YMCA in my ski boots
• singing heartily about polar bears in German (with actions)
• skiing down the mountain in the dark sozzled whilst still singing (or was that slurring?) about polar bears in German – oh yes, and still doing the actions!
• not falling down.

Yes sirree, I may be tubby but my CV has never looked so impressive.