I have made a resolution not to weigh myself. Naturally that means after two days of cutting down on ingestion of food and walking for an hour, I ran like wild dogs were chasing me to the weighing machine, which then rudely proceeded to inform me, with what looked like a smirk on its face (or was that just the needle swinging wildly) that I had actually put on a couple. Short of hurling it down from the 15th floor, where I could be sure it would either a)smash to smithereens on the parking lot, b)smash any unfortunates head to smithereens or c) smash a poor car to smithereens, I took a deep deep breath and thought back to the wonderful maxim that muscle weighs more than fat. I am gaining muscle. I know it. I am going to get ripped and cut and whatever the wonderful terms they use for them bulging out gobs under skin layers, accentuated by veins. Yes, yes, I walked for an hour yesterday and spent the next hour running after the brat in the park. I have worked out enough to make my calf muscles get ripped.
And ripped they were this morning, when I swore they had doubled in size and were really numb. I know now the pain that follows the pleasure that I was floating on the previous evening. The rush of adrenaline for having actually done some physical exercise, and the runners high, and the feeling of something sputtering in my thigh cellulite deposits like they were being broken down and melted in order to fuel this walkathon. Okay, the last part is purely imaginary.
Having said that, I have seriously decided not to check my weight everytime I pee. I will make weight checking a once a month affair. So, have chucked the weighing scale into the loft. Knowing me, I will never take the effort of getting the high stool out again to climb up and get it down. That will be another workout in itself.
Instead, am going to rely on what the mirror tells me. I will look at myself, with a purely objective eye, every morning to notice areas of fat that need trimming and target these through creative visualisation, while continuing on my restricted calorie intake and daily walks and being as active as I can get. This means that I now keep the water bottles only in the kitchen, which is a good five minute hike away from the bedroom, and this being summer, translates into many hikes into the kitchen, by which time I get thirstier and drink more, and end up running to the loo more often and then imagining my belly sleek and flatter than Madonna’s.
I am also not overeating. The cook has been instructed to make only chapattis for me. Two. The thought of it makes me feel deprived, and ready to camp outside a restaurant with a begging bowl in hand, but I shall be resolute and firm and not waver. I shall be a rock. Remind me to empty my wallet of all petty cash, so am not tempted to run into a coffee shop and run out with a mayonnaise laden chicken sandwich. Or worse, throw aside the hapless people standing in line at the McDonalds, and shake the counter guy’s collar demanding a chicken burger with extra cheese. Now. With a knife to his gut. Of course, wont need petty cash for that, just a knife.
When I was younger I had a brilliant way of knowing I was getting out of shape. I didnt have a weighing machine. Another instrument of evil. More grist to that post coming up on instruments of evil. I had, though, a biscuit coloured corduroy pant. Which was my measuring tape. When I could get into it, the world was good and the birds were singing, and the butt was in relative proportion to the rest of me. When I couldnt, the skies were dark and crackling with thunder, and the mood was ominous portent of doom, and one half expected me to do a Damien on unsuspecting bystanders. That pant tore. Unfortunately. Ten years of usage, perhaps. Took its toll. In fact, in its latter days, I only used it to check if I could button it up without sucking in belly and doing the wriggling dance. Today of course, had it been around, it wouldnt have gone past my knees. And I swear my knees havent grown any larger than what they always were.
I have now designated another pair of fabulous True Religions, which I have sadly outgrown, as my measuring trousers. I will now aim all my efforts towards getting into them without scotchtaping the belly down, and cling film wrapping the stomach and hips. Or getting into the belly control number I invested hard cash in when the fruit of my womb popped out leaving me with a jiggly mass of flesh on my belly with no purpose but to jiggle everytime I took a step. Give me a couple of weeks. I will get into them. Without the rest of me getting squeezed out from above the waistband.