Warning: Immediately before writing this post, I jotted down the html code for making hyperlinks. I may have overused it a bit.
Remember Project Connor? I do. I was going to diet, and chronicle it all online – what I ate, when I exercised, how much I weighed. People would support me through the highs and lows, and by September 2011, I’d be a skinny malinky.
But the blog, though it meandered, continued to be about my weightloss “journey”. A slow and massively unsuccessful journey.
Then two things happened. First was Sligo. The blog was becoming more and more about how being Connor sucked and not about how being fat-Connor sucked. The second was the marathon. I had poured my heart and my soul into that marathon. I had made a million and one commitments. But I didn’t train and I quit halfway through. People kept commenting on my blog, my writing, my mess of a life. Nobody really talked about the weightloss any more. I gradually became more embarrassed of the posts about dieting.
There was one big push, in March when I started the beans diet. Other than that, I’ve kind of just been plodding along, half-heartedly struggling with my weight, not making a huge effort.
I can’t remember ever in my life not being on a diet. I remember times when I was on extended breaks from diets, but I never remember a time when I wasn’t on a diet of some shape or form.
I’ve been on a fairly extended break recently. Other than one day of the bean diet two weeks ago, and a week of the bean diet while I was in France, I have barely been pretending to diet recently.
And I’m feeling the effects. I’ve been filling my body with biscuits, cake, chips, and above all, bread. My digestive system is in an almost permanent state of revolution. To the extent that I spent most of last Saturday night on the toilet. It’s like my body is rejecting me.
I imagine my body speaks of me to its friends in a snooty French accent.
My joints have always tired easily, and I’ve mentioned my ankles many times on this blog, but recently it’s different. I am no longer uncomfortable. For the past few weeks, my joints have been painful, and not just my ankles. My knees, my elbows, my wrists and my shoulders are all in pain, especially in the mornings.
I have the body of a 70-year-old.
I will go to the doctor sometime soon. Hopefully I’m not arthritic. Hopefully it’s just my inner hypochondriac screaming for attention.
But I have to do something. For health reasons. And also for all the other reasons I’ve listed here a hundred times, which are mainly to do with trying not to hate myself so much.
I’ve tried many, many diets. And they all work. All of them. It’s just a matter of getting me to work.
So, I’m going to give it another try. But this time I’m doing something new. I’m going to do the Tony Ferguson diet. It’s the one Boots sells. You have shake/soup/bar for breakfast and lunch, and meat and veg for dinner. You have fruit twice a day. And that’s it. I bought the starter pack two weeks ago and have been looking at it with suspicion ever since.
I know there are healthier diets out there. I know that I should be training myself to eat well for life. Moderation and blah-de-blah.
But I would just like to divorce food for a while. I can learn how to eat properly from scratch once I finish this diet. I just need to not have the responsibility of having to think about food, of having to make “choices”.
I haven’t decided on an alcohol policy yet, but I’ll be relatively liberal to start with. Can’t go too far to extremes!
So, I’m starting my crash diet tomorrow morning. Wish me luck, but please, please don’t offer me advice. I know it all already.