Ugh. I’m on some kind of diet. Not any specific, named, comes-with-its-own-book/meetings/products kind of diet. But I am trying to eat healthier with the aim of losing weight. Not a lot of weight, but a bit. This displeases me.
I’ve never had to worry about my weight. Firstly, I’ve never really cared about the actual numerical value of my weight, nor have I ever desired to be model-thin. Frankly I think I realised quite quickly the reality of my situation, given my natural born build and family traits I would have been sorely disappointed had I tried to get myself looking like Twiggy. But having been brought up on a fairly healthy diet – home grown veg, home cooked meals etc – and having a life-long interest in physical activity and exercise, things kind of took care of themselves. I was never skinny, but I always maintained a healthy weight and body shape without having to put much effort into it.
Then I got pregnant. While the healthy eating continued, my main form of exercise had to stop. Well, it is possible to continue to train in martial arts whilst pregnant, with modified techniques, but I chose not to. I still walked a lot, partly for my work which involved visiting advocacy clients all over the Greater Glasgow area, partly for pleasure. Of course I put on weight in pregnancy, but not excessively so, and it didn’t bother me.
When I was off on maternity leave I walked for miles, pushing the pram, carrying baby and shopping etc. I had put on the best part of 4 stone while pregnant, and was soon left with only 1 extra stone. Again, I wasn’t fussed, I figured I’d lose it eventually, I certainly didn’t want to put myself on any punishing regime so soon. I’m going to be honest with the figures here, I don’t care – I had been 9 stone before, and was nearing 10 stone after. OK, I’m around 5 ft 3in so I’m definitely happier around 9 stone, but 10 isn’t exactly obese.
So time went on and before I knew it I was back at work, a year has passed and I was rushing around working, looking after baby / toddler etc. I saw that my weight had started to drop. I didn’t monitor it particularly closely but I was happy enough. Then I lost my job, fortunately before too long I got another one, but the dual problem of a few weeks (months?) of comfort eating and consoling ourselves with cakes and biscuits while going through a redundancy process at work, then moving to a much more desk-based job and I found my trousers were getting a bit tighter. Craparoonie.
I have to face the truth, that without a concerted effort on my part my weight is in danger of creeping up above 10 stone, onwards to 11 stone and beyond. That I am determined to avoid. Much as it pains me to say, I am going to have to go on a diet.
Never in my life have I gone on a diet. I have scoffed at those who do, ridiculed people who try diet after fad after miracle cure only to punish themselves when they don’t see instant results. I don’t want to be one of those people who refuses a biscuit when having a cup of tea with someone, uttering the abominable words, “oh, not for me, thanks, I’m on a diet”. I would sooner chop a limb off. Hey, there’s a solution.
But in all seriousness, I am still not bothered by the actual reading on the scales. What I am bothered about is that I am a classic “apple” shape – my weight is concentrated around my middle, and not all of the fat is visible on the surface, lots of it is clinging around my vital organs. Visceral fat they call it, and it is just as pleasant as it sounds. That is the kind of body type that is prone to all manner of diseases and internal problems. So that is a major incentive to do something about shifting it. That and not wanting to buy a whole new wardrobe of larger sized trousers.
So here goes, I’ll refuse the biscuits, make sure my office is full of fruit, use the child’s plate for portion control, try to squeeze in some exercise and all the while try to avoid actually using the d-word.