I’ve just made a mess in our kitchen. Rummaging for a snack. And I came back with a carrot. A bloody carrot. It’s nul points you see and that’s all that matters this week. And for the next 19 weeks come to that. Because after much thought, dodgy Xmas pics and jean shopping frustration (big waist + long legs + lesbian = grrr!), I’ve the bitten the low calorie bullet, done the research, dismissed the fads and started with a diet that works. I can’t quite bring myself to say Weightwatchers so we’re calling it WW in our house as I log in, count points and longingly remember the days of chips, fried bread and roast potatoes.
And f*** me its working. One week in and I’ve lost 4lbs. Slow but sure. Yes I did hallucinate the other day, seeing the words ‘spices available’ in the car park sign instead of the usual ‘spaces available’ but apart from that its wholemeal wonderful and diet dandy. I opted for the WW online; no random meetings in drafty town halls discussing the merits of dust and with a handy recipe builder that only requires imagination, GCSE Maths and rudimentary grasp of the laws of fibre, fat, carbs and protein I’m getting there. You’re allowed 29 ProPoints a day, more if you jump up and down an awful lot. (Don’t even think ’bout asking the numbers a pork pie racks up!) The online ProPoints tracker feels like Facebook for food, adding favourites, checking forums, recording exercise and joining groups, as you abandon those comfort bedfellows of butter and bangers for your new mates Shredded Wheat, Muller Light and the ever slutty all you can eat/take fruit and veg. We’ve bought shares in Andrex, there’s a lot of water to be drunk don’t you know, and I’ve even learnt to say the mouthful that is a “RedRoaster decaf skinny double flat white” with a huge queue behind me without feeling like an arse. Well almost.
Like everything I do that’s not easy, the missus is my rock (cake), delivering dinners via the kitchen scales as she keeps me on track. I repay her with chocolate, ensuring a grin from her and a same size missus for me. The plan is Queenie doesn’t lose weight, not that I’m a feeder or anything, but I need an unchanging hot wife beside me to display my forthcoming svelte body against.
Well maybe svelte. Failure is a definite possibility but seeing as I’ve had a year of getting where I want to be, this seemed the right next step. Buggered legs, waiting for the NHS to treat insist on some action and getting none, meant if this is the only way to deliver pain free days so be it. I’m sleeping better, feeling better and there is a define (disco) sparkle in my eyes.
Yes there’s a spring in my step in January and that’s a new found joy. I may well be seeing spices where there are spaces, dreaming of crumpet and a little too keen on cottage cheese for my own good but I’m gonna keep on giving it a go. And in writing about I’m coming out. Okay I may not be able to say the D word whilst it’s all about the WW abbreviation in our house but onwards I intend to go. Next step is literally more steps. Walking, running, swimming, cycling, that kind of very un-Wildblood thing. First I need to lose eight more pounds so I can squeeze into the new kit I’m gonna spend considerably more than eight pounds buying. Any excuse for some new trainers.
Back to the carrot.