Preston College drop out
Readers of the lost blog will be au fait with my current weight loss antics. It started as a cursory trip to a fertility clinic for what I’d thought was an introductory meeting about whether or not, should we need help, my husband and I could be considered.
To recap – we’ve been pregnant once but sadly I miscarried. That occasion is long gone but in the absence of another pregnancy, and my increasing age, I was sufficiently concerned to enquire about help.
In the event of our needing help, the doctor said the NHS would not assist because I am in need of weight loss. It’s all based on BMI.
He referred me to a dietitian, except that two appointments came through – one for a weight management course, and the other for a one-to-one consultation with a dietitian…both on the same day!
The dietitian was great. I have a problem with portion size, and ratio of food groups on the plate. Added to this, I work from home, get far less exercise than I did three years ago and am probably dehydrated most of the time. All this adds up to one thing – obesity. No, before all my dear friends cajole me into thinking I am not, I am – FACT! But it’s the BMI thing which is irksome. While a health professional, by which I mean trainer/fitness bod talks muscle being heavier than fat, the fertility clinic see only weight. So I can be 14 stone of lean ripped muscle (in my dreams) or I can be 14 stone of rippling flab (in my reality), the outcome is the same – too big a BMI.
I am therefore, on a quest to shift it, except I had a total meltdown this weekend. Tears, endless tears, of frustration and oh what’s the point-ed ness. I feel like I’ve been on a diet my whole life, one which I fall off every day. And then you see programmes advertised on Channel 5 or Sky or some other crudsville channel – my morbidly obese he-Dad/she-dad is having a baby and think to yourself WHAT IS THE F***ING POINT??
I do not judge, but I do feel resentment.
I have blood tests, an MMR jab, a massive dose of some weird drug which made me cry for 5 days for no apparent reason whatsoever to combat my inner bacterial imbalance, I have had a smear, swabs and now the weight management course, which I must attend weekly for 6 weeks…..and I look around and children are dropping children, fat people are procreating….at one point 9 of my friends were/are pregnant…and sometimes it all just gets a bit much. So all of you will have to forgive the bitter ramblings of a fed up old hag…and to add a totally baseless sexist side to it all…it feels like it’s all me and that my husband can just sit back and wait for it all to happen.
The weight management course is hilarious. Initially I had fears that I would be feeling like an extra on the Jeremy Kyle show but it’s nothing like that. The slimmest woman from week one worked at KFC, she didn’t come back for week two.
We’re all women. I asked if this was on purpose and the nice man who takes us said not, but more often than not, only women ever come. The men apparently turn up to the first one then never return.
It’s all very chilled. The emphasis is on dissuading you from counting points, having red or green days and seeing any food as forbidden. It’s all about redressing your relationship with food.
Week One – classically what I’d said to my dietitian was said back to me at the class later the same day – I bet all of you had childhoods where food was a reward, a way to celebrate or commiserate….spot on. I do not blame my folks for this at all but it’s a good explanation.
The weekend and my emotional turmoil was testimony to that. I had a cream scone, bought (but didn’t eat) some Lindt Pistachio, and ate ice cream, all for the first time in weeks…plus we had two barbecues….a meat overdose.
My dietitian would probably think all his words had fallen on deaf ears while the weight management guy would comment that a little of what you fancy is OK….just don’t do it this every day.
So we’ll see. But for now I am treading the streets of Fulwood, or walking and running at intervals around Moor Park. I come home and cannot function. My legs ache, my back aches and I’ve never known knackerisation like it. Contrary to myth, it does not make me sleep. I actually think it pumps so much adrenaline around my body that I wouldn’t sleep for days then suddenly I just crash and am snoring like a blocked drain on the sofa in front of the crucial episode of Mad Men that I wanted to see.
So fellow women on the same quest for motherhood, I salute you, I commiserate, I feel your frustration, heartache and bepissed off-ness. To the partners of the women going through any/all of this thanks for being there and putting up with the endless crap which comes out of our mouths.
To my readers, please do not read any of this as a cry for help or an invitation for sympathy. This is catharsis, this is my confessional. I am what I am and I know it, and you, who know me, know it.
So, onwards and upwards. Another week. I must try to factor in exercise…it’s where much of it falls down. Take me away from this infernal machine to which we are all addicted as our arses swell and engulf the chairs upon which we perch.
Here are the pics from my first trip around the block.
2 gloves on Garstang Road - non-matching
The cap outside Preston College was the first and then a rush of losses…these two mismatched!
The beckoning glove on Garstang Road
I love this pic. Usually I really don’t like utility gloves, they’re everywhere but I liked how this one seemed to beckon…and matches one of the mismatched ones from above!
Checco's crocheted hat
I’d be so annoyed if I lost this crocheted beanie. It was really pretty. It stayed there for 4 weeks…….which is the norm round these parts. People of Preston, and those just passing through, eat at Checco’s, it’s truly lovely and the food is scrummy.
Lost shoe - first position
Lost shoe - second position
Lost shoe - third position in fuzzy vision!
As the phrase goes – that is all!