I panted my way into my supervisor’s office at twelve minutes past eleven this morning. When we’d set a date for this meeting, he’d said “I know you’re not a morning person, but surely you’ll make it in for 11:00.” We both laughed and slapped our thighs at the very idea of 11:00 being too early for me. As it turned out, it was twelve minutes too early. We’ve set our next meeting for noon.
Other than my timekeeping, I’ve been relatively angelic. I’ve been to boxing three times in the last week. The first twice was with my PhD buddy, but yesterday, I went alone. And it was fine. People are beginning to recognise me. If they’re paired up with me more than 20 minutes into a session, they stagger back. My face turns such a bright shade of red, and so much of my body mass turns temporarily to sweat that my co-combatants are either shocked or suppressing (not always successfully) the need to laugh.
I’m getting better. I managed more push-ups last night than I did in the first two sessions, and though the entire left-hand side of my body feels the pain for a good 24 hours after a session, I’m feeling better able for the whole thing.
My last blogpost about boxing caused some concern about my safety on Facebook. Some friends (who happened to be girls) told me to be careful/get myself checked out/not allow myself to be hit like that. This is possibly my own fault, as I just might have made my bruise sound more severe than it is. (Connor exaggerating? Don’t be ridiculous!) I promised to get it checked out by a nurse. At which point, a male friend jumped in and told me I’d be fine – I just need to do a few sit ups and blow out when punched. I don’t think I’ve ever felt manlier. It was like being Phil Mitchell – the girls begging me to be careful, the man telling me to suck it up.
Speaking of being manly, I changed a tyre on Saturday. By myself. I did it outside the windows of my dorm, with at least five of the boys watching. Not a single one of them helped in spite of me cursing very loudly. You might almost say my cursing was suggestively loud. No one picked up on the suggestion. I got my hands and my shirt all dirty and greasy and I had testosterone oozing out of my ears by the end of it.
In a less manly moment, I had to ask a girl what to do with the tyre I had taken off the car. Apparently, you can get punctures repaired. Who knew? I was all set to buy a brand new tyre.
I was in the girls’ house, being fed and supplied with scones for my WeightWatchers breakfast. I actually get a bit emotional when I think about all the people who have invested in Connor and his Project at this stage. I have one friend baking for me. I wouldn’t be swimming but for another. I wouldn’t be going to boxing but for a third. And they’re just three – I could mention the people who text and email me wishing me luck, the people who have taken me for walks (remember this?), the hordes who have loaned me money, or even put me up.
So thanks, y’all. It seems to be working.
I went for my weigh-in last night, full of trepidation, even though I’d been good all week. The week after a big weightloss can often be a bit rubbish. It wasn’t. I lost three and a half pounds and so I now weigh 23 stone 9 pounds (331 lbs or 150.1 kgs). That’s 11.5 pounds this month. I haven’t quite got rid of all my Christmas weight, but I’m very close now.