Funny isn't it how everyone says that diets don't work, it's just a question of eating less. Errm...isn't that the same thing? My tummy certainly seems to think so a week into my new healthy eating regime. Some might say that deciding to lose weight in the run up to Christmas is somewhat foolhardy, if not downright bloody stupid. Guess what? They'd be right.
If it isn't enough of a nightmare simply trying to tame my rampant appetite for all things edible, trying to do it as everyone from the TV to Starbucks is trying to ram mince pies, turkey sandwiches and creamy hot chocolate down my throat is a living hell. I am trying to tell myself that it's all a question of retraining myself to prefer a nice healthy bowl of lentils to a steaming bag of chips, but my brain, being an iota or two above subnormal, just ain't buying it.
Still it has to be done as I am sick of choosing from the tent rails in clothes shops and looking like someone stopped in the middle of inflating me into a bouncy castle. Not to mention my raised chance of developing diabetes thanks to a body that seems to be not only incapable of telling my stomach that yes, it has had enough, but also to regulate sugar in my blood. Cheers for that.
This morning I had my first induction to the gym. It has been years since I darkened the door of such an establishment, but with temperatures dipping below freezing and my general tendency towards sloth it seems like the only answer. I was put through my (slow and painful) paces by a personal trainer, who had me drowning in sweat and blowing like a buffalo after about 15 minutes of gentle walking on a treadmill, all of which reminded me quite why I hate gyms.
All I can do is visualise how unbelievably gorgeous I will look once I reach my desired size, and forget that for all the weight I lose I am still pushing 40 with all the associated wrinkles and crinkles that rather ruin my soft focus fantasy of myself. Wish me luck, I have a feeling I am going to need it.