I came home last night after the usual long day at work. The day had been ‘so so’. Work is very up and down at the moment.
As I disrobed, preparing to make a strong, alcoholic drink – I decided to dust off the scales. They were under the bed, covered in dust since the refurb work at the flat some weeks ago. I don’t tend to use them these days. I don’t like the readouts.
What happened next is the stuff of nightmares. I mounted the scales (digital, WeightWatchers) – then waited the few obligatory seconds for the readout to blink. And then it did. And the figure staring up at me is one that will live on – in infamy.
Suffice to say I didn’t then have that alcoholic drink. My rapacious, insatiable thirst for alcohol on returning home of an evening will be the death of me. I’ve worked out that the calorie intake alone amounts to several thousand a week. This has all ended up on my body – pale, white, flabby, cadaverous. I become increasingly elephantine and it abhors me to my Michelin-imprisoned core.
So I’m off the booze. Not sure for how long. As long as it takes to shift the tyres, perhaps.
I want to be very slim again. Is that too much to ask? I’m about 17 lbs heavier than I was at my thinnest slimmest about 1.5 years or so ago. And it galls me greatly. And of course one of the reasons I project my anger on my workplace is that, due to the hours I work, I don’t go to a gym any more. That said, I plan to change this when I’ve moved to somewhere much more central. I long for the auto-pilot of the virtue and endorphine-inducing treadmill. Many don’t like it. I love it. I have always loved it. I want to be running 3-4 times a week again. 10+ miles a week. Like in the olden days. And like a chain reaction, I’ll become extremely abstemious with food again. This is what happened last time and the weight dropped off.
With me the pendulum swings either one way or the other. There is no middle.