Wednesday, January 26, 2011

Days 203 - 208

I am in my apartment. My lamp throws soft shadows from the floor to the ceiling. There is a party next door. The animated chatter of voices, the splash of bodies in the pool, music.

I am in bed. My body is cool, smooth, quiet. My mind is quiet.

After my first session of hypnotherapy a few weeks ago, I asked Br to throw out my scales for me. They were a set I bought on the internet a year or two ago because they would measure your body fat percentage. The personal trainer I had at the time preferred me to track my body fat percentage rather than my weight. I set up the scales as the instructions directed, entering my information to allow them to accurately report my body fat percentage. When I stepped on I received an error message. Further reading of the instructions revealed that the scales would only produce readings up to 47%. A healthy body fat percentage for a woman my age is 21-33%, 33-39% is overweight and over 39% is obese. Slightly higher percentages are recommended for older women – the bottom end of the obese category for women 61-79 years begins at 42%. So I guess what the scales were telling me was that, in their opinion, once they had determined I was obese it was no longer useful for me to know how my body fat percentage had altered unless it was to tell me that I was nearing the bottom of the obese bracket. Fuck you scales. My ideal weight is just beyond the cusp of obesity. I think I look amazing at this weight. I feel amazing at this weight. Fuck you B.M.I.

Whatever. It’s my body. I do what I want.

When I run my hands over my side I feel slimmer. I could be wrong. Who knows? Br threw out the scales just like I asked, so I won’t know until my next appointment.

I feel calmer since I started hypno again. Previously, where I perceived that I’d had a bad day I would refuse to count my calories and just feel hopeless. In the past few weeks I’ve just been counting them anyway and I’ve made a startling discovery – even when I think I’ve eaten too much or eaten lots of crap I’m not consuming that many calories.

How odd. Calorie counting has become something that brings me comfort and reassurance rather than being something that feels oppressive or punitive. Counting my calories after each meal lets me know that I am headed in the right direction.

I went to a barbecue today. I ate barbecue food. I used to fucking dread barbecues – the combination of fatty meats and booze just killed me. Today, after meat, potato salad and sugar free cruisers I was still within my calorie limit.

What does this mean? I don’t want to go getting ahead of myself, but it could possibly mean that I can trust my body.

I’ve increased my exercise. Biting the bullet, I've taken up a second gym membership because I simply do not enjoy going to my current gym. Rather than waiting until the end of my current membership, I've joined another gym where I know I enjoy going despite it being a little further from home. I’ve been going most days. At the rate I’ve been attending I’ll actually have engaged in 25% more exercise than the psychologist asked me to this month.

Exercise is something that has brought me a lot of anxiety in the past. Like wearing form fitting clothing the simple act of engaging in activity has, in the past, felt as if it invites the judgment of strangers. I’ve had concerns about my fitness before – ‘if I can’t spend at least 15 minutes on this machine people will know that I am fat and unfit’. I once had a panic attack in a spin class, trapped on an uncomfortable bike in a dark room full of strangers cycling to oppressively loud dance beats. I felt like I couldn’t go on, like I’d run out of puff for that particularly intense class but how could I bring myself to get off the bike and admit to all the people around me that I had so neglected my health and fitness that I couldn’t simply ride a bike for 45 minutes straight? My throat flattened, tears on my face and I was so sure I would die, or at least pass out. In the dark no one knew. I had regained my composure by the time the class ended.

I’ve made another startlng discovery – I’m not unfit.

I’ve been getting through classes without a problem and then even doing some extra cardio on top. I’ve certainly been spending more time at the gym than the 30 minutes per visit the psychologist asked me to commit to.

I can trust my body.

Time to go to sleep.

You can ask me anything.


  1. Going to have to do this anonymously because I can't remember any login details for any of these online things, but you'd guess who I am purely because I'm here to once again have a good ol bitch about the world with you.
    Man FUCK BMI. That test is ridiculous. Remember Shayne Webkye (not sure on spelling) anyway he was that beefcake footballer who now reads the news, anyway, going by BMI, he is regarded morbidly obese. Yes, a man who once performed at a stella physical peak for his country is regarded as morbidly obese. That's enough proof that BMI is just a bad calculator. People's weight should not directly marry up with their height.
    Anyway. Bitch over. High five for getting back into the gym anyway - it's amazing the more you go the easier it gets.

  2. Cheers dude! Apparently it being easier now means I have to work harder. Whatevs! A sweat's a sweat :D It just makes me feel so much better!