A win

OK, here's the deal.

In a week where:

• I ate as many carbs as I wanted as long as it was low fat,
• I am floated and bloated with PMT
• I am constipated
• I am retaining water from last weeks heat
• I only did one training session (because Andrew was away)

You'd think I'd have put weight on really?

Nah.

I lost 0.5kg

Happy with that.

Keen as.......

Amazingly though, for the first time in ages, I am actually looking forward to training tomorrow morning, and even more impressively, I am keen to get on the scales.

Watch this space.

Friends....

Friends....

We were friends for a long time. Back when I rifled through my father’s
hidden stash of dark chocolate, you were there. When I sneaked Mars Bars from
the larder and hoped no one would notice, you were there. You even came along to my grandmother's house that summer when I was just six. How embarrassing to find that Granny had taped closed the lolly jar after she noticed I'd pilfered some.
You understood, though.

You were my friend, even when my Dad became sick and it shattered our
family. You stood by me when I lost myself in school. After our separation at
university, you appeared when I needed you again. You have been a steady friend,
available at any moment of any day. Boring weekend? Nothing to do? Tired?
Confused? Too much to think about? You were there offering a plate piled high of
hot buttered toast. Or best of all, offering a great big bag of crisps.

As I grew up (literally: upwards and outwards) my friends liked
you, too. We'd all go out and eat curries, or deep fried crumbed mushrooms and
potato skins. And a salty main course always called for something sweet, so we'd
create ice cream taste sensations with Mars bar sauce and peanuts. We were all
friends. We stuck together.

Who needs blokes when you have popcorn drizzled with butter or bowls of
Bhuja mix?

As it turns out, blokes are more interesting than you. You have
to admit, though, that occasionally, when we did get together, a whole pizza
would disappear and sometimes a pound-size bag of Maltesers, too. And I never
did practice moderation on that rare occasion we'd go a restaurant. Hello!? I
had to get my money's worth.

My job made it convenient to spend time with you, which was great,
wasn't it? All those tacos and freshly deep-fried chips? What's not to like
about deep-fried flour tortillas dusted with cinnamon sugar? Hot chips? My
constant companion.

I really never expected to see you once I got married. And I probably
wouldn't have if infertility hadn’t lurked. I will never forget the first time
we were together again. They're not kidding, are they? Once you pop, you just
can't stop. I had to hide that Pringles can when it was all over so my husband
wouldn't realize how much I ate when we reunited. We picked up right where we
left off, didn't we?

Married life stressed me out, but not because of the marriage itself.
The other stuff that happens to grown-ups challenged, teased and tested me -
bereavements, the infertility, moving, job changes, financial trials,
parenting, pregnancy, moving again--oh, and let's not forget the Sarcoidosis and
the Prednisone. I am so glad you were there for all of that. I am, really. You
were the one I could count on. Making friends is tough when you're a grown-up
and working at everything that was just too hard!

But here's the thing. I outgrew you, just as surely as I outgrew those
size 10 blue jeans. Sure, you still felt comfortable to me. You calmed me down,
welcomed me with open arms. But I grew tired of sneaking around with you. I
realised that you act like my Best Friend, but you sabotaged me. You stabbed me
in the back. You do not have my best interests at heart. It's really all about
you and was never about what is best for me.

But breaking up was hard to do. You became my worst bad habit,
the dark sin I repented of every Monday morning. I was embarrassed by the way
you dominated my time and I pretended that we weren't really that close. But it
was clear enough to anyone who looked at me and my extra chins. The telltale
signs told that we were on intimate terms. I preferred spending time with you
than anyone else.

So, you had to go. Food, you were the sorriest excuse for a friend
ever. All that time when I thought you were helping me, bringing me peace,
entertaining me, you were wrapping your chubby little fingers around my heart,
ready to cut off the circulation.

You were demoted. So, stay in your proper place. From now on, you
serve me, you nourish me, you keep me healthy. That's it. Our old relationship
was clearly sick.

I might be lonely for you and maybe I'll be tempted to call. You are so
familiar to me! The easiest possible solution to every problem! Bored? Sad?
Happy? Tired? Cause for celebration? Let's eat! I may want to call you. But I
can't. I've stopped. You are no friend, despite your chumminess.

We're breaking up for good.

And I mean it this time. Leave your key on the table and don't call me
again.

Sniff sniff cluck cluck grief sniff

Oh my oh my. I am, quite frankly, suprised I can even see the screen for snot and tears.

I was caught yesterday, totally by suprise, by my sister in law. The one who was married to my late brother. She wrote to tell me of the amazing talent of my nephew, my brothers beautiful son. Which I know he has, in spades. But it threw me totally into the most ugly ugly grief stricken sobbing. For an hour or so. Not pretty.

(Actually, sobbing sounds like it might be pretty. It was more like gulping and loud howling from within, which reminded me of the primevil sounds I made during each of my labours. Accompanied by copious amounts of snot.)

Which is a nice segue to my emotional cluckiness. I have 2 gorgeous friends who are due their babies in the new year. One is onto number 3, and another onto number 4. Another couple of friends are expecting number 2. Lovely Loreena is expecting her first.

I then had a call yesterday from another friend who is 17 weeks pregnant with her number 3.

I am truly overjoyed. (To the point that I had a little happy cry in Kmart as she told me!)

But I cannot deny: I am clucky. Bad hormones. Raging to be pregnant again. Itching to give birth again. Desparate to hold a newborn of my making at my boob.

I know it is mad. I know it is impossible. (Literally, physically impossible. A vascectomy and early onset menopause make it impossible.) But I just cannot help being clucky. Crazy, I know.

Then, to add even more snot to the blubbering mess, I ended up chatting to my trainer (who should be a councellor too, incidentally) and we ended up talking about Mum........oh and didn't that open the heavens. She asked me: if you feel you have been parenting your Mum since you where 12, you need to ask that 12 year old girl what she missed out on then, and give it to yourself now. Far out. Easier said that digested.

I have so much to "deal with". I feel like I am being asked to drag myself through concrete. I secretly know it will be worth it. I am just too full of snot. I don't have the brain space. Nor the time.

So, all in all, these things make me tired. Emotionally tired. I feel like a wrung out dishcloth to be honest.

But all these things that make me cry: the grief, the cluckiness, the fears over Mum, the need to take care of myself......despite them all, I am still kind of happy and not depressed. How does that work?

On the one hand I think "Ah, bugger it, this too will pass". But deep down, I think I kind of know that "This too will pass" is simply a mechanism to avoid dealing. And for as long as I avoid dealing with this type of shite, the more regularly this shite will just cause a stumbling block.

Ohhhhhh, I dunno. it is so tempting to just ignore it all and play Jungle Jewels.

We shall see.

F*** Diets!

Ha, that go your attention?

Before you all (All? who I am kidding?) start chucking a fit, thinking that I am "giving up" on this whole diet shannanigans, hold up. bear with me on this one.

As some of you may know, I am a fan of hypnotherapy.

I know just how powerful the mind can is. It can make or break us.

I think it was Henry Ford that said:

"If you think you can do a thing or think you can't do a thing, you're right "

I have previously used Slim Forever (very effective, but an American accent, which grated on me. Body sounded like bardy.)

And I am committed to Think Slim, by Mark Stephens, which is great, and I have his whole collection, and there are just so many tracks on the MP3 player and so many CD's (all covering different food and weight issues) that it is a whole toolbox of therapy all by itself.

I also have Paul McKenna's "I Can Make You Slim" book and CD, which I am sure is probably really effective, but his voice is just too "gameshow host" for me. Too gimmicky a vibe.

So, when I found out recently that Susan Hepburn had a new book out.........ooooooh, excited! (I could only find it via Amazon, annoyingly, no where in Australia seems to stock it yet.)

Susan Hepburn - Hypnotherapist

F*** Diets

I promptly ordered my copy and thanks to Amazon it arrived quickly. And it works. 3 days in, and I can honestly say it is working. And the sleep that the hypnosis induces is also very very lovely.

I have actually just emailed Ms Hepburn herself, to ask, "Does hypnosis work if I fall asleep in the middle of the CD?" (Basically, her self guided relaxation is so good that I am fast asleep before she gets to the "good bit" LOL!)

(But it definately does appear to be working, so maybe I shouldn't worry so much?!)

Watch this space. I feel a new surge of energy with regard to this weight loss caper.

Bye.

Wise words.............

For any one out there in blog land who is:

• Dieting
• Watching their weight
• Gaining slimness
• Doing WW
• On Plan
• Adopting a healthy lifestyle
• Choosing well
• Eating sensibly
• Getting active

Or indeed any of the other trite sayings that are associated with this whole food and exercise caper, I heard these wise words the other day, from the mother of a friend of mine.

Both the friend and her mother are delightfully trim, so I heeded this little gem:

"It is not about the number on the scales, it's all about the silhouette"