H came with me to Zumba today. My first class. Super lame. Fun.
I’m relatively certain that the soundtrack included a latin cover of 2 Live Crew, We Want Some Pussy.
There’s an amount of jumping involved and I feel something in or near my stomach swishing around. It could totally be the souvlaki N and I ate for breakfast slash lunch on the way home from the surgery after doing fasting bloods for our three monthly check up this morning. It could be that sack full o’ saline I let a stranger stitch into my abdomen. Maybe we’ll never know. Either way it felt like I was going to lose my lunch.
So I retired briefly to the powder room of the Serbian Orthodox Church to take a wee breather. I sat and thought about how the appointment had gone today. In seeing the psychologist, I confessed to what was essentially a complete lack of dedicated exercise, save for the few occasions I had ventured out with K and her canine pal. It seems that the group 12 months ahead of us has not been going as well as was originally hoped and one of the reasons is an apparent unwillingness to commit to change re food and exercise. So I promise to do two Zumba classes and go walking twice in each week until my next appointment.
I think about the rate at which I’m losing. I think about the other fucking promise I made to try to reach a goal of 5 more kilos lost before Christmas. This is a relatively modest goal, 500g or so per week. This is around about what I’ve been losing anyway, without much in the way of dedicated exercise. I think about the time I got down to 82kg taking all that reductil and duromine while I was working hospo. Then a lightbulb explodes all over my face like a jagged moneyshot and I realise that at that time I lost about 15kg in 6 months.
THAT’S ONLY 625 GRAMS PER WEEK.
Here I’ve been, beating myself up about this shit, when I’ve been losing around about the same amount that I was losing per week when I was going to the gym regularly, worked in an active job and was dosed up on prescription speed.
DUB. TEE. EFF.
And here I’ve been losing this amount without much in the way of effort at all.
Back in those days, the golden, rose tinted duromine days I refused to weigh myself at home. I would only step on the scales at my doctor’s office, and I would usually be down by about 2 kilos each month.
So you know what? Get fucked scales. Eat a dick.
P.S. I didn't spew.
This post is for N.