It is a truth universally acknowledged that a glance in the mirror or weigh-in that suggests you're too heavy will inevitably result in a depressing episode of trying on clothes in a downtown store, which instead of reassuring you that the scales were out of kilter or the mirror was distorted, will only cruelly reinforce earlier feedback. And so it happened this afternoon. What is the difficulty in simply accepting that before buying clothes I must lose weight, and copious amounts of it? If I had a fiver for every superfluous pound of subcutaneous fat I could buy up the Caribbean.
Chocolate is one of the culprits. I've had episodes of giving it up, my longest period of abstinence to date being twenty eight months. The first time I abandoned this addictive substance I went public, by which I mean I typed up a declaration of intent, signed it, witnessed by loved ones, and stuck the notice on the fridge. The challenges were enormous, the coping techniques required many and varied. Every time I imagined a Fry's chocolate cream, I told myself 'cut'. I couldn't even think of it. My son's Easter eggs had to be eaten in another room. When a friend served up ice cream liberally sprinkled with chocolate 'hundreds and thousands', I picked each one off. Yes, I know, truly gross. I scoured Edinburgh for acceptable alternatives. I felt desolate when I passed newsagents. Well-meaning friends, observing my struggles, dispensed advice such as 'allow yourself a little piece of chocolate from time to time.' They hadn't a clue. Like an alcoholic knowing that no alcohol is easier to stick to than a little, so it is for me with chocolate.
How much did I eat a day? you might be asking. One average size bar, sometimes two. I always wanted more. It was when the two threatened to become three I realised something must be done. I resented being controlled by a cocoa plant. Of course there are chocoholics who'd be unimpressed by such quantities. I worked with one. She confessed once to a particularly stressful day when by lunch time she'd consumed twenty bars.
As well as being a chocoholic she was a workaholic. If she stayed late in the office, the chances were the canteen vending machines would be empty the next day. You could picture the bemused employees at coffee time, looking round for signs of break ins, not realising that Mademoiselle Chocolat had a report to complete the night before and not only had finished the maltesas, kitkats and mars bars, but also the cheese and onion crisps and hula hoops. It was this colleague who arranged evenings out to restaurants serving chocolate pizzas, who told me about romantic chocolate-based weekends and, when the world was being exposed to nicotine patches for stopping smoking, gave me a Christmas present of a vanilla patch meant to suppress chocolate longings.
So, I came off, hoping my cravings would disappear after several months. That wasn't to be my lot, unfortunately. Ten months later I still ached to stuff my face with chocolate. I allowed myself to resume it again when the year was up, hoping I might be able to eat it in a more restrained fashion. Regrettably that didn't happen.
Now I'm carrying round excess weight, putting strain on my heart, knees and bladder not to mention my long-suffering back. And summer's approaching. And it's time. And perhaps my reason for writing about this is to shame myself into taking action.
As a dietitian, of course I know what to do, how to do it. I spent years advising patients along the lines I'm about to follow. Ironically the gym's the ideal place to burn off calories, but my gym wear's too tight. There is the swimming pool which with some canny timing, I can slip into when backs are turned. As for the dance classes which I'd love, I visualise myself as a tank shoogling next to racing bikes, or a rhino next to gazelles... Not pleasant images. I can see why dance studios are studdied with mirrors. For the more supple and modest physiques such glances must be wonderfully affirming. For me though, any musically- inspired movement would certainly be followed by a scream of horror at my reflection, possibly even a shattering sound - everything, particularly glass, has its breaking point.
So just as sometimes it's necessary to redecorate prior to redecorating, I must first lose enough weight to be brave enough to turn up at the gym. The sickening thing about gyms, of course, is that most of its patrons look fantastic -perhaps resulting from such working out, or perhaps they always have looked like goddesses. Doubtless, once I start attending again I'll constantly be looking out for people with bigger weight problems than mine, perhaps with the intention of forming a little group of 'less than perfect bodies'. We could have our own section with reinforced flooring where the treadmills and step machines were free to judder and shudder to their hearts' content.
If I have any success, I will blog about it, ideally not in a smug way, maybe just as an encouragement to myself.
Hopefully yours
Jane
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