ObesaurusRex
Member
Hello, everyone. I'm new to the board; this is my first post. Hello. I would wave, but I don't want my upper arms to knock you all out.
I ate all the pies. And the crisps. And one time I put a chocolate eclair in the bin to stop myself from eating it, but two hours later I retrieved it and ate it anyway. That's kind of a life low point for me, and I figured things can only get better from there (even if only that, in future, I'll be rummaging for discarded cauliflower florets instead).
This is the kind of behaviour which has brought me to my current weight. It's also brought me thigh rub, chronic do-you-think-I'll-fit-in-that-chair-itis, a handful of clothes that I don't even like, social anxiety, low self-esteem and enough love handles for the entire cast of "Gandhi" to each grab a slice. I've paid for these results by way of lost opportunities, a social life that makes Mr Bean look like the party master, and, of course, also financially (hey, Domino's pizza three times in one week does *not* come cheap).
Enough is enough. I can't pinpoint precisely what's triggered this effort (the realisation that Ryan Reynolds and I will never happen whilst I continue to eat my feelings?), but it's a long overdue culmination of a hundred tiny everyday matters which make me feel as though I've catastrophically betrayed myself in some way. The love affairs I've missed out on; the outings I've been too self-conscious to attend; the horses I've been to fat to ride; the mountains I've been to unfit to climb; the number of Evans dressing rooms I have balled my eyes out in, reaching tentatively for the mirror and wondering whether they've replaced it with a miracle animation of Keith from The Office who somehow mimics my every move.
Earlier this year I lost a couple of stone from my 24 stone frame. (I take that back - my frame is probably only about 8.5 stone.) Yesterday marked my first day on the Cambridge Diet, and I believe I have in the region of 180lb to lose. I think that's equivalent to one whole Adele.
Having always been... er... adiposely gifted, I'm not even sure how thin I can get. Don't misunderstand me: I'm not looking to become skeletal (She-Ra is good enough for me), but I'd like to be a solid 10. Or should that be a comfortable 10? To a size 26 like me, a 10 doesn't sound very solid at all. My hips almost occupy separate postcodes, so perhaps my bones are a little too big for the Holy Grail of clothes sizes. I've got short little legs and a big tummy, like a Shetland pony left out to grass for too long. I've got shoulders broad enough to carry all my chips (not my emotional ones, but the McCains ones I've been eating), and an oversized bust I fear may become more of a "shoe rack", in that that's how far down it'll reach.
Despite these worries, I have no reason to postpone my diet any longer. I'd even gotten to the point where I was sick of food (pizza again? Seriously?). Of course, now that I'm on day 3 of Cambridge I feel as though food is the only thing in life I truly love. But, to get all serious on you now, at nearly 30 years of age, and with enough ambitions but too little health to sustain another 50 years of age, it's time to finally deal with this incredible bulk. Only then can I get on with achieving all the things I really do love, like swimming in the sea, travelling by aeroplane, shopping in Monsoon (well, I've never done it but I know I'd like it).
Until then, I need to learn discipline. Self-acceptance. The joys of tap water in preference to fizzy drinks. You'd better withdraw your shares in Coke, if you have any, as without my purchases they're about to lose one-tenth of their UK market!
I hope I can do it. I'm sure I will - if only because I've now made a big song and dance about it, and I prefer to save face (can't you tell? I've a couple of spares saved here under my chin). Fortunately, not having a children or partner to cook for, I won't have many food distractions. We'll know I'm in real trouble when the cats' Felix starts to look appetising.
It's only another five days until I can hop (read: tread gingerly, for fear of breaking) upon my scales and find out how my disappearing act is going. Until then, I'm hoping to make some new friends with whom to count down those days, and whose incredible determination and success can keep me inspired.
On that note, I'm off for my second shake of the day. "Shakes". One of the few things I'd never dream of consuming in the "real" world, yet it's going to be my basic sustenance for a year. Oh well: it could have been worse. It could have been the cabbage soup diet.
I ate all the pies. And the crisps. And one time I put a chocolate eclair in the bin to stop myself from eating it, but two hours later I retrieved it and ate it anyway. That's kind of a life low point for me, and I figured things can only get better from there (even if only that, in future, I'll be rummaging for discarded cauliflower florets instead).
This is the kind of behaviour which has brought me to my current weight. It's also brought me thigh rub, chronic do-you-think-I'll-fit-in-that-chair-itis, a handful of clothes that I don't even like, social anxiety, low self-esteem and enough love handles for the entire cast of "Gandhi" to each grab a slice. I've paid for these results by way of lost opportunities, a social life that makes Mr Bean look like the party master, and, of course, also financially (hey, Domino's pizza three times in one week does *not* come cheap).
Enough is enough. I can't pinpoint precisely what's triggered this effort (the realisation that Ryan Reynolds and I will never happen whilst I continue to eat my feelings?), but it's a long overdue culmination of a hundred tiny everyday matters which make me feel as though I've catastrophically betrayed myself in some way. The love affairs I've missed out on; the outings I've been too self-conscious to attend; the horses I've been to fat to ride; the mountains I've been to unfit to climb; the number of Evans dressing rooms I have balled my eyes out in, reaching tentatively for the mirror and wondering whether they've replaced it with a miracle animation of Keith from The Office who somehow mimics my every move.
Earlier this year I lost a couple of stone from my 24 stone frame. (I take that back - my frame is probably only about 8.5 stone.) Yesterday marked my first day on the Cambridge Diet, and I believe I have in the region of 180lb to lose. I think that's equivalent to one whole Adele.
Having always been... er... adiposely gifted, I'm not even sure how thin I can get. Don't misunderstand me: I'm not looking to become skeletal (She-Ra is good enough for me), but I'd like to be a solid 10. Or should that be a comfortable 10? To a size 26 like me, a 10 doesn't sound very solid at all. My hips almost occupy separate postcodes, so perhaps my bones are a little too big for the Holy Grail of clothes sizes. I've got short little legs and a big tummy, like a Shetland pony left out to grass for too long. I've got shoulders broad enough to carry all my chips (not my emotional ones, but the McCains ones I've been eating), and an oversized bust I fear may become more of a "shoe rack", in that that's how far down it'll reach.
Despite these worries, I have no reason to postpone my diet any longer. I'd even gotten to the point where I was sick of food (pizza again? Seriously?). Of course, now that I'm on day 3 of Cambridge I feel as though food is the only thing in life I truly love. But, to get all serious on you now, at nearly 30 years of age, and with enough ambitions but too little health to sustain another 50 years of age, it's time to finally deal with this incredible bulk. Only then can I get on with achieving all the things I really do love, like swimming in the sea, travelling by aeroplane, shopping in Monsoon (well, I've never done it but I know I'd like it).
Until then, I need to learn discipline. Self-acceptance. The joys of tap water in preference to fizzy drinks. You'd better withdraw your shares in Coke, if you have any, as without my purchases they're about to lose one-tenth of their UK market!
I hope I can do it. I'm sure I will - if only because I've now made a big song and dance about it, and I prefer to save face (can't you tell? I've a couple of spares saved here under my chin). Fortunately, not having a children or partner to cook for, I won't have many food distractions. We'll know I'm in real trouble when the cats' Felix starts to look appetising.
It's only another five days until I can hop (read: tread gingerly, for fear of breaking) upon my scales and find out how my disappearing act is going. Until then, I'm hoping to make some new friends with whom to count down those days, and whose incredible determination and success can keep me inspired.
On that note, I'm off for my second shake of the day. "Shakes". One of the few things I'd never dream of consuming in the "real" world, yet it's going to be my basic sustenance for a year. Oh well: it could have been worse. It could have been the cabbage soup diet.
