The Fat Bloke Diaries

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THE FAT BLOKE DIARIES

Episode Nine - Reasonings

I thought that this week I’d talk about why I have suddenly, at the age of 43, decided to become somewhat less of a fat bloke. I know in Episode One I spoke about my partner’s unromantic bedtime “oomph”, and how it made me realise that my weight needed attention, but I still did nothing about it except feel sorry for myself and buy some tracksuit bottoms. For some time they kept the bottom of the wardrobe warm, but still had the labels attached. It would take another, even more embarrassing catalyst.

I could trot out the usual health related reasons, like I don’t want my partner to nurse me (or worse) after an early heart attack, how I’d still like to have functioning knees and hips by the time I reach 60, or that I don’t want to lose a much loved extremity to diabetes. These would be truthful, but they’re not the main reason.

There’s the silly answer, which is that I got stuck in the bath and found it difficult to heave my body out of the tub as the water did its best to drain away around me. I don’t think my bathroom carpet will ever recover from the mini-tsunami that burst forth when I finally dislodged myself. Again, this is true, but a secondary motive.

The real reason that I decided to get fitter and shift some weight is that Marvel comics’ green goliath, The Incredible Hulk, told me to. I know it sounds ridiculous, but stay with me on this one, OK?

It happened while I was in Florida, at Universal Studios’ ‘Islands of Adventure’ theme park to be precise. It’s one of the rollercoaster capitals of the world, if you like that kind of thing. As I quite do, I was really looking forwards to having my stomach thrown in fourteen directions at once (and being upside down for much of the aforesaid throwing) on one of the world’s finest coasters. It’s named after Bruce Banner’s emerald-skinned alter-ego, and I was as excited as an eleven year old at her first X-Factor Live! gig as I stood in line to ride.

Eventually I got to the front of the queue and climbed into the seat. It was a little snug, but I squeezed into the plastic wraparound bucket. The safety harness descended and… and it couldn’t fasten. I was too large.

What happened next isn’t easy to write. While it didn’t quite involve a warm spatula and a bucket of goose grease, it might as well have done. I had to be unwedged in a most undignified way by a team of young ride workers who made a phenomenal job of failing to hide their smirks as they manhandled me into an upright position. I had to wait forlornly at one side like a naughty boy on the naughty step until one of the ‘special’ seats for ‘special’ people came around. For ‘special’ read ‘fat in the way that only Americans can be’. The oversized bucket that they lowered me into looked absolutely immense, but sadly it hardly felt roomy at all. I still rode, but the shame spoiled my enjoyment. I had officially been branded a lard-**** and the world had seen it.

It may have taken a big green coaster to point out my dietary sins, but redemption will soon be at hand. I’m going back to Florida in May. Shallow I may be, but I can’t wait to let the Hulk hurl me around once again. And this time I’m determined to be riding in a ‘normal’ person’s seat.

So that’s why I’m in my current situation, churning tens of kilometres every week on my bike, and working with my Wii Fit balance board like someone will snatch it and gift-wrap it for their kids if I leave it un-stepped upon for more than ten minutes. Then there are the push-ups and sit-ups, the walks and the weights too. I’m still far too conscious of my size to be seen in a gym or pool, but I can feel a definite improvement within myself. I know that I’ve experienced a significant weight loss now, but the true measure of success is much more about how I feel inside.

With the help of ‘Derek’ - the devil’s representative on Earth who is my Wii Fit’s onscreen trainer - I’m starting to work on my core muscles. I’m not sure exactly where they are, but they’re apparently hidden under the wobbly bits around my middle. Apparently if I build these muscles up they’ll start to poke through the belly blubber or maybe even push it off. Not in one big lump, that would be silly, gross, and would leave a nasty stain on my shirt, but perhaps in little bubbly nodules that I can flick at people on the bus?

I’ve got to the point now where I can see a time in the future - a long, long way in the future admittedly - that I could become a shadow of my former self. Maybe then I’ll have to rename these personal logs. “The Slightly Stocky Shauny Stories”? “The Big Boned Bloke Blogs”? “The Less Lardy Lad’s Ledgers”?

I’ll have to give that one further thought, but I don’t think this column’s title is going to contravene the Trades Descriptions Act for quite a while yet.


© 2008 Shaun Finnie

 

[lttlmc3]

I've just started reading all of these. Good job! Keep up the good work!

 

[2goofycampers]

Wow, who knew The Hulk could be so life changing and I was afraid all it would do for me is change my stomach from full to empty. Continued good luck to you.

 

[Judy Judy Judy]

I've enjoyed the heck out of this, good luck to you, I wish I had words of advice but if you seen me you would just laugh it off and for good reason...ha

 

[des1954]

Thanks Debbie, but... what's "blood work"? Sounds scary?!!?!?!

Blood work is when the Dr. takes blood and sends it off to the lab to see how your glucose, vitamins and cholesterol are. Only scary if you don't like needles.

I HATE needles...but I relent to the fact I have to have it done every 3 months. Go to your physician & have him order a blood panel that includes cholesterol, tryglycerides, for a guy- PSA, and an A-1 C for diabetes. If you've not had a blood panel done before, your first will be a "base" for all following tests. You should have had one around age 40. If your first test comes back normal, you won't need another one for a few years. If it's not normal, you'll probably need to return within 3-6 months. I didn't heed the early warnings and now am diabetic. The diabetes could have been avoided had I been more cautious with diet & exercise when I was your age.

By the way Shaun..... YOU ROCK!!!

 

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THE FAT BLOKE DIARIES

Episode Ten – The Dreaded Munchies

I’ve started writing a food diary. It’s a simple idea; I just write down anything and everything that I stuff into my cavernous maw. You know the kind of thing… Breakfast – toast, marmalade, tea, banana. Lunch – Tuna salad, apple. Afternoon boredom snack – extra-large triple chocolate muffin. I know that this won’t be everyone’s motivational tool of choice, but the written word is incredibly powerful to me. If something’s committed to paper then it has added validity, so I thought that seeing all the bacon and beers recorded in my own handwriting would make me consider how many of them I consume, and how often.

That was the theory, but my cunning plan began to work even before I put pen to paper. From the very first day I started to catalogue my intake I’ve been avoiding the aforementioned tasty tempting treats like the plague, as I know that if I eat one I’ll have to write it down. And if I write it down I have to share it with you.

Some might ask what difference does it make, who will know if you don’t record every delicious little pork pie or scrumptious Mr Kipling French Fancy? The answer of course is, I would. A phrase that will be familiar to all golfers is “record as many shots as you like, you’ll only be cheating yourself”. It’s the same idea.

As a result I’ve almost totally cut crisps and chocolate out of my diet. I’m not saying that I was a bit of an addict, but I hear that shares in Nestle and Walkers have tumbled. I expected that I could resist these ‘junk foods’ if I put my mind to it, but much more surprising has been the dumping of the beloved sausage sandwiches (with cheese and brown sauce). In fact my bread intake overall has decreased dramatically. I know my personal eating pattern better than anyone. It’s never been about taste for me, but routine. If it’s mealtime, it’s time to make yourself full, it doesn’t really matter what with. Thrice daily, perform the dining ritual.

But things are starting to change. The other day we had a small celebration. It was a friend’s birthday and he fancied pizza. Well, what are friends for? Naturally I helped him celebrate, but afterwards I was amazed at how full I felt. It was only a small pizza too. It isn’t that long ago that I’d have been demolishing a full dustbin lid sized pepperoni special (with extra pepperoni, extra cheese, and a bit more pepperoni for good measure) all by myself. And I’d have been considering a pudding to wash it down with. So I guess that my appetite is reducing along with my gut.

Beer too has simply fallen out of fashion for me. Perhaps I’m getting old or even, Heaven forefend, ‘growing up’, but the days of twelve hour drinking sessions appear to be behind me. My liver thanks me, even if my local landlord doesn’t. He’ll have to find some other way to pay for his new conservatory.

There’s a new proposal from the Government's Advisory Council on the Misuse of Drugs. They want to introduce a requirement to print calorific content on bottles of alcohol, just as it is on most other food and drink. It seems sensible. Slimmer’s World must think so too as they’ve been listing the calorie count of various beverages in their books for years. Weight watchers can work out how many beers (or wines, or flaming sambuca slammers imbibed from the navels of Peter Stringfellow’s finest ladies of entertainment… allegedly) they are going to allow themselves before a big night out. The trouble is that this kind of planning tends to go out of the window after the ninth pint of Stella.

And the general lack of inhibitions that alcohol abuse brings often leads to an attack of the Late Night Munchies. An unplanned trip to the dodgy greasy burger van could arise, or worst still you could find yourself chomping on the dreaded greasy elephant’s leg. Surely nothing in nature can be as bad for you as a kebab.

The maths seem simple enough. To lose weight one must simply expend more energy than one consumes. So I’ve got to work out how many calories I’m burning throughout each exercise session, as well as in simply going about my daily business. Then I need to keep a track of precisely what I eat (as I am doing), and then calculate the number of calories that this equates to. As the batteries in my calculator are dead, this all needs to be done on paper or in my head, which is beneficial in itself. Not only does it keep my brain active, but it takes forever to do, which leaves less time available for eating.

Perhaps that’s the answer; I should feed my mind, not my stomach? Next time I feel peckish, rather than nip out to Pies ‘R’ Us for a super-sized Steak ‘n’ Ale, I’ll get a great big book of Sudoku puzzles instead.

© 2008 Shaun Finnie

 

[2goofycampers]

Sounds like everything is getting a little easier for you, keep up the good work.

 

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THE FAT BLOKE DIARIES

Episode Eleven – A Merry Little Christmas

Last Christmas someone bought me a new shirt. I like this shirt, and thanked them politely for it just like my mum had taught me to do when, as a young boy, I received yet more clothes instead of the longed-for new bike or puppy. It’s a lovely top, but in my heart I knew that I’d never wear it. It was just that little bit too snug around the belly, a tad too close fitting around the shoulders. As such it was destined to join the horrendous jumpers and novelty musical ties at the back of my wardrobe, the graveyard of unwearable gifts.

But that was a whole year ago, back in what we should now begin to call my bad old days. I’ve lost a few pounds since that garment was dumped in reject present hell, so I thought I’d dig it out and try to force the buttons to fasten. Guess what? It fits! Not in a Cinderella’s slipper “ooh, it could have been made for me” kind of way, but the cloth only curves out a little between the buttons, it doesn’t cut in too badly at the armpits and, most importantly, it doesn’t expose any of me between the bottom of the shirt and the top of my trousers.

I triumphantly wore it to the office this week, and the vertical stripes emphasised my almost imminent departure from Fat Bloke City, a place where I’d been Mayor for far too long. It raised a few comments from my workmates (“New shirt, Shaun?”, “Are you losing weight, mate?”, “Is there a Shaun-shaped hole in a deckchair somewhere?”) and it felt good to be wearing something other than the shapeless three-button polo sacks that have for so long been my norm. It’s especially nice to have a different choice of attire at this, the most gluttonous time of the year.

For years I’ve been able to fill out the Santa suit without requiring any padding. Now all my clothes, not just the red and furry ones, are starting to feel a little looser. I’m feeling pretty good about myself, and I don’t want to waste all the hard work that’s brought me to this state on a few days of socially required gastronomic excess. We’re now well into the Christmas party season, with its glut of pints, pies and party poppers. It’s the time of year that many of us try to get into a lovely little black cocktail dress. I’m no exception, but I usually just end up with a hefty slap for my troubles.

For those of us trying to watch what we eat the festive period can be a complete minefield. If we let it this can all too easily become the season of excess. I don’t know how it is at your place but at Fat Bloke Towers we usually manage to stuff four of the biggest meals of the year into the three days starting December 24th. This year I simply don’t want to do that. I’ve made a good start with my weight loss now and I have no inclination to totally blow it just so that I can fall asleep the second that the Queen (bless her) appears on telly.

Why do we gorge ourselves at this time of year on such copious amounts of food and drink that we wouldn’t normally touch? And much of it is such fattening stuff too. There must be some way to make these tasty yuletide delights less appealing. Why for instance would we have…

• mulled wine, when it’s just an excuse to use up the cheap red that nobody wants?
• Quality Street? If they’re such quality, why would they be left in the street?
• egg nog? You don’t need me to tell you what it looks like in the glass.
• mince pies? They would be so much nicer with real mince and gravy.
• sprouts? Come on, they’re sprouts!

I’m just trying to find some way to stop myself overindulging, as I fear I will over the next week or two. It’s a shame that I don’t dance at parties, I might work some of it off, but I know how badly I look on the dance floor, especially after a little lubrication. I promised to quit drinking and dancing after that time in Rotherham ‘that we will never mention again’. The one with the tequila. And the traffic cone. And the policewoman.

So over the next week or so I’m going to eat what I want – after making sure that I do actually want it – but just be prepared to put in a little more exercise. After all, what else is there to do in the Christmas holidays? I intend to enjoy myself while not going stupid with the food and drink. I’m going to have myself a Merry Little Christmas, instead of the usually extremely merry, big fat lardy one.

© 2008 Shaun Finnie

 

[whogirl'smom]

This is fantastic! Love your writing and congratulations on the weight loss so far!

 

[kinntj]

Wow! Congratulations on your weight loss and fitting into that shirt that was in storage for so long!

I just started reading your blog and you have a great sense of humor and writing style. I look forward to hearing your weight loss journey and you fitting nicely in those normal seats on the Hulk.

 

[sharper_fin]

Thanks. Weight loss now = 18 pounds

 

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THE FAT BLOKE DIARIES

Episode Twelve - That Was the Year That Was


I had fish paste sandwiches for lunch today. It’s not the healthiest food in the world, but I’ve had much worse things. Not worse as in “I’m a Celebrity, Let Me Chomp On A Kangaroo’s Love Spuds”, but worse in a fat content way. But my problem with fish paste sandwiches is that I always have a bag of cheese and onion crisps with them. Always. No exceptions, no discussion.

So I opened my lunch, smiled at the looks on my workmates’ faces as the familiar fishy aroma wafted around the office, and began playing The Association Game. I had the sandwiches; I now needed the packet of salty fat-soaked processed potato pieces to go with them. Within seconds I had left my chair and was heading for the snack machine. It didn’t matter that it has been a couple of months now since I’ve craved a bag of crisps. This was different. This had nothing to do with wanting some starchy crunchy snacks; I had fallen victim to That Thing You Always Do syndrome.

Without thinking I trotted up the stairs to the ninth floor where the machine is. I spied the required packet through the glass and was starting to salivate like Pavlov’s dog at a campanology convention when disaster struck. The stupid machine wouldn’t accept my cash. I even had the right change but it just kept spitting all my coins right back at me. Not a single one did it keep, which I thought was astoundingly decent of it given the amount of money it must have taken from me over the years.

Not to be outdone I jogged downstairs to the seventh floor. I’ve never been there before, but I’ve heard that they have a machine on that level too. So I burst through their doors… almost. Actually I almost burst my shoulder. The seventh has a security system and my staff pass didn’t allow me access. The door held firm, the crisps still tantalizingly close behind it.

It was then that I took the hint and went back to my workspace empty handed. I would be going without crisps. And you know what? I tasted my sandwich in a way I never had before. Naked and beautiful. The fish spread butty that is, not me.

Who’d have thought it – I’m now taking nutritional advice from machinery. But then again there have been many things happened this year that I would never have thought possible. Me buying my monstrous exercise bike was the first one, and cutting back on the beer and pizzas has been impressive. But not as impressive as losing a whole stone, which is what happened to me towards the back end of the year.

I’m astounded at the changes I’ve made. Apparently it takes around three weeks of regular repetition for the body and mind to create a new habit, both good and bad. 2008 will be remembered as the year that I developed a whole lot of new habits. Some I wouldn’t like to mention as my aged mother might read this, but others include eating more healthily and getting regular exercise. Neither of these have been part of my life for decades. I’m under no illusions that thirty odd years of dietary abuse can be reversed in just a few months, but any improvement is better than none. Thirty-five years of watching Sheffield United has taught me that.

I’ve never been one for setting New Years resolutions. I’ve never seen the point really. They always seem end in disappointment and depression, usually sometime in the middle of January. In my youth I made some half-hearted attempts at them, but as I have yet to walk on the moon, drive a steam train or appear as a guest star on The Partridge Family (which sorts of dates me a little) you can see how successful they were. I guess I’ll never do any of those things now, but there are some things I can declare with some degree of confidence that I will do.

I will keep up the good work health-wise that I’ve started this year.
I will lose more weight.
I will continue to eat less rubbish.
I will up my exercise levels.

These are my resolutions for 2009, and you are my witness.

© 2008 Shaun Finnie

 

[JCJRSmith]

Terrific writing and terrific progress so far. One of the hardest truths about weight loss is it takes TIME. I didn't balloon up overnight, nor will I lose all the extra pounds overnight. Like the proverbial tortoise: Slow and Steady Wins the Race.

I thought you may be interested in this web site from Men's Health magazine. They have a free club called the "Belly Off" club, with exercise routines, advice, and lots of motivating success stories, and it is free to join. You seem to be doing a lot of cardio work which will cause you to lose weight, but often, cardio alone will cause one to hit a plateau. The Belly Off workouts have you mix in weight training with cardio to build muscle and burn fat. One of their weight routines is designed around using one's own body weight to work out. Here is a link to the club:
http://www.menshealth.com/bellyoff/index.php

Keep going, and best of luck reaching your goals!!!!

 

[KirstenB]

Shaun, way to go!!! 18 lbs is a lot. Go lift some bags of sugar or flour to feel exactly how much that is. Gak....I finally went to the doctor's today to get some meds for a sinus infection. I got on the scale and nearly passed out. I have gained 15 lbs this year. And no, I'm not 6 ft tall, nor am I big-boned. It's like that Dave Matthews song, "I eat too much, drink too much...."

Anyway, congratulations.

 

[sharper_fin]

Episode Thirteen – Putting My Foot In It

What have I done?

My knees are never going to forgive me for this. I’ve bought myself some running shoes. Don’t pull your face up at me like that; if the wind changes you’ll stay that way (as my Granny used to say). No, it’s not a New Year’s new leaf turner thingy and I didn’t buy them on some kind of mid-life crisis whim either. It’s something I’ve been thinking about for a while, something I’d been planning to build into my long term fitness plan. Something that the cash stuffed into Christmas cards from aged aunts has now allowed me to do.

I’m not an expert in these matters, but I’m smart enough to know that I want my footwear to provide the maximum protection for my gimpy knees and busted foot, so I went to a proper running shoe shop and not a general sportswear store stocked with stuff aimed at people who don’t do any athletic activities but want to look as if they do. It was there that I discovered an entire new form of science to be blinded by.

If you’d asked me just a few weeks ago I’d have said that pronation was a country full of harlots, that gait was the way into my garden and that last was where I’d finish in a race. As of last night I’m still not at all certain what these things mean, but I do know that the nice lady in the running shop told me lots about them, most of which went way over my head. What I did understand though was that I would be perfectly suited to a lovely looking and very expensive pair of Asics. I also understood that at that price I was very relieved when they didn’t have them in my size. The credit crunch has even reached this part of Yorkshire. However by sheer good luck the cheap & cheerful discount sports shop around the corner (one that makes its living selling hoodies to young chavs – allegedly) had the same shoes in stock and they fit me like the proverbial slipper. And they were in the half price sale. Score, as my young niece would say.

Like a kid with a new bike on Christmas morning I’ve been dying to hit the road, but I’m taking the advice of all the running websites that I’ve seen: Start By Walking. So sticking with my trusty old hiking shoes I’ve been stepping out a mile or two thrice weekly for the last few weeks. It has technically been walking, but only in the same way that a smart cat walks the world’s fastest nonchalant walk to avoid a strange two year old kid offering to stroke it. My little legs have been a blur.

They say that if you really want to know someone you should walk a mile in their shoes. That way, if you find out that you don’t like that person, at least you’re a mile away. And you’ve got their shoes. I like to think that I know – and very much like – my partner (even though her shoes are much smaller than my feet) and I know what she likes. Fortunately, one of those things I happen to like too.

Walking in the woods in the winter is staggeringly beautiful. It may not do too much good for the cleanliness of my boots, but it does wonders for my soul. The sight of woodpeckers and squirrels more than compensates for the dead shopping trolleys and the smell of flatulent badgers. It was the badgers, honest.

Then it’s back home to warm up, her on the radiator, me on my static bike. She’s lost over half a stone now too. That’s the partner, not the bike. She's not doing anything particularly strenuous, just eating sensibly with me and walking briskly with me. I’d call it passive weight loss if I didn’t want to risk the mother of all slappings. But her need for warmth doesn’t really help me much. She likes to feel ultra-toasty at this time of year, which is fine but it means that our heating is on during most waking hours. I’m a sweaty cyclist, so it doesn’t take long before my dining room (that’s where I torture myself in this way) becomes a sauna. After several months of pedalling with the intensity of a Tour de France rider who’s been told that all drug testing has been cancelled, I’ve now got as far as Rome. It looks just like my dining room.

My thighs might still resemble pigs’ haunches, but at least the bacon’s getting leaner. And once my probationary walking period is over, they’ll be put to good use powering those new trainers around. For miles and miles and miles…

What have I done?


© 2008 Shaun Finnie

 

[2goofycampers]

Glad to hear you're sticking with it and now have a walking partner. Everything is better done in twos.

I am gonna post a link to this on the camping board weight loss thread, always good to see some one sticking with it and seeing results.

Here is a link if you would like to check it out.

http://www.disboards.com/showthread.php?t=1814381&page=53

Continued success to you.

 

[sharper_fin]

THE FAT BLOKE DIARIES

Episode Fourteen – Stepping Out

There are some things that I never thought I’d find myself saying. “Well OK, if you really want me to wear the Batman outfit… again”, “That Blair chap did so much for world peace” or “I’m really enjoying this exercise malarkey”. Now two of these statements still remain firmly unuttered – Hell is still more than slightly toasty – but the third? Well amazing as it seems to me, let alone everyone who’s ever come into contact with me, I’m finding that the static cycling, walking, stepping etc is actually turning out to be quite fun.

And even more astoundingly, I can’t wait to get to the point where I can call myself a runner. The advice given to all novice runners is to start off by walking for two minutes, followed by running one minute. Repeat this half a dozen times or so per session and slowly build up from there.

This guidance sounds great in theory, but the problem is that I can’t run for a whole minute. Even if I could, I wouldn’t be able to repeat this astonishing feat a mere two minutes later. For me it would be walk two minutes, run twenty seconds, stop. Call ambulance. Put head between knees while attempting to breathe again. Try not to die while waiting for the red mist to clear from vision. Do not repeat, do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred pounds.

Since when did running become so difficult? I used to do it all the time when I was a kid. I’m pretty certain that I could still recite my six times table today; I was good at that when I was nine as well. Why is running so different? It seems obvious that I’m just out of practice. That’s what I tried to convince myself when the time came for my first run.

There’s an old proverb which says that a journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step. Preferably onto an aeroplane. I didn’t have an aircraft handy, so with my trusty partner alongside I set out on foot, new running shoes glistening in the early morning sun like a beckoning beacon for every footpad and vagabond in the area. ‘Rich man with rich trainers’, they scream. ‘Who knows what else he’s got hidden about his person?’ Any mugger would be disappointed though. They’d be better off going for my beloved; at least she has some gold fillings. My shoes are the most expensive thing about me. They sit nicely below my five pound (that’s monetary value, not weight) jogging bottoms. And, moving further up my body, there’s none of this ultra micro fibre easy wicking latest generation synthetic material for me. I’m a ‘real man’, remember? So a thick cotton t-shirt with an even thicker chunky sweatshirt on top was the order of the day. I’m not saying I ended up sweaty but both shirts ended up wetter than an otter’s pocket.

I should probably point out here that I live in an area that’s notorious for subsidence due to its history of coal mining. While I didn’t notice any buildings collapsing into newly-formed chasms as I passed by, I don’t think that my running is doing much for local insurance prices. Maybe I should have a quicker runner thirty yards in front of me waving a red flag, warning the locals to shore their homes up. My partner perhaps, who takes great delight in sprinting as I waddle damply along.

I’m proud to say that I managed to get through it in one piece though – she, of course, wasn’t even breathing hard – and I even kind of enjoyed it. A bit. But I mostly enjoyed the long soak in my bath afterwards. While I was in there (please don’t picture it) I got to thinking. What if I start enjoying it to the point of actually looking forwards to a thrice-weekly jog, or even more?

A friend of mine – let’s call her Kathy as that’s her name – goes for some form of strenuous exercise every day. Swimming, a run, hanging out at the gym, or perhaps, on a good day, she’ll have a go at all of these. A day doesn’t go by without she pushes herself to the limit.

Now some people will be reading this and thinking ‘Good for her, that girl shows real dedication’. But what if I change that paragraph a little so that it reads slightly differently?

A friend of mine – let’s call him Dave as that’s his name – goes for some form of alcoholic refreshment every day. Vodka, a beer, hanging out at the wine bar, or perhaps, on a bad day, he’ll have a go at all of these. A day doesn’t go by without he pushes himself over the limit.

Would those same people who applauded Kathy view Dave as an alcoholic? It’s something to consider. I wonder if I’ll end up as a Kathy or a Dave?


© 2009 Shaun Finnie

 

[puzzifootin]

Go baby Go!

I may just walk the dog...

 

[KirstenB]

Shaun, you're slowly moving over to the dark side! It sounds like you're discovering that if you have an addictive nature, you just get addicted to exercise too. I love the term "flatulent badgers" by the way.

A couple of suggestions: if you don't already have an Ipod or something of that ilk, it makes your jog go by much faster. Especially helpful if you're having one of those "don't want to get out the door" days. This has gotten me through more tough runs than I can count.

Think about picking up a copy of Runner's World. Lots of good advice in there, and it's not just for fast runners.

P.S. I'm currently a Kath/Dave, slowly trying to get more Kath-like. Hopefully my gall bladder and liver are silently thanking me!

 

[sharper_fin]

THE FAT BLOKE DIARIES

Episode Fifteen – Celebration

Derek is trying to make me more leathwake.

Those of you who have been reading these Diaries for a while will know that Derek is the virtual trainer that I use on my Wii Fit. He guides me through the gym and yoga classes with a friendly manner. He’s also a liar. He that tells me I’m doing great when I’m struggling to hold The Plank position for twenty seconds, and that my balance is pretty good when I’m teetering on one leg like an arthritic stork on a tightrope. In a gale.

However my favourite untruth of his is, “You’re obviously no stranger to exercise”. While it could be argued that this may be true now, he’s been saying it since the very first day I stood on the machine, when I was indeed a complete stranger to exercise. That was also the day I first heard the little electronic ‘Ow!’ come from the TV as I stepped onto the little white step, which doesn’t exactly help my confidence, but at least Derek’s always there to build me up.

Every good hero has his sidekick. Batman had Robin. Don Quixote had Pancho Villa. Morecambe had Wise. And Derek… Derek has an anthropomorphic cartoon Wii Fit board, which I’ve taken to calling Snowy.

Snowy is constantly asking if I fall over a lot. I guess this is because when I’m standing on Snowy I fall over a lot. I know my balance is terrible; I don’t need a sarcastically voiced piece of wireless tat to tell me this. It comes from a terrible shopping trip in Vancouver (my bad balance, not the wireless tat), during which I was mugged with malice aforethought by a delinquent set of stairs. They fractured my foot, and dislocated it for good measure. And then, instead of running off with my shopping as any self-respecting teenage tearaway should, the Steps of Doom decided to tear some ligaments and tendons in my hoof as well. But the broken rib was the bit that really hurt. Some might say that the stairs were peacefully minding their own business, happily guiding Canadian shoppers up and down before the clumsy foreigner came along and dived down their length. But I know the truth.

So yes, I do have balance problems, and I’m still a Fat Bloke, but Derek and Snowy are doing their utmost to help me, and it seems to be working. I’m sleeping better, I have more energy and best of all I’m losing weight.

All in all I’m feeling pretty good about myself, and it’s time for a treat. I deserve a little celebration after all this hard work. But how should I reward myself for doing less damage to my bathroom scales? In the past all the little incentives that I’ve given myself have been based around food and drink. ‘I got that document finished early, so I’ll treat myself to a muffin with my coffee’, ‘If I sink this putt I’ll have a celebratory whisky later’, ‘It’s Thursday – let’s go for an Italian’, etc. Traditionally pizza and beer would have featured highly in my self-congratulatory excesses, but not anymore; they’ve been banished to the realm of increasingly rare treats. My problem is knowing what form my well-done-me gifts should now take?

One incentive trick that some folks swear by is to buy some great looking clothes that are a size too small. That way they know that they’ll have at least one thing that will look good when they’re smaller; not everything that they wear will hang from them like a monstrous, shapeless sack.

I’m sure that this works for some of you good people, but not me. I’ve happily kept clothes that others have bought me for just this reason and it’s starting to pay off as more garments cross the gap from the ‘too small’ pile to the ‘wearable in private’ cupboard. Some of these old gifts have even acquired ‘passable for public viewing’ status, but I’m none too happy with the idea of handing my hard-earned cash over to a clothes shop in return for something that I won’t be able to use for some time, if ever. And even if (that should of course be ‘when’!) I do get to wear it, who’s to say that I’ll still be as enamoured of it then as I am now, or even that it won’t have fallen hideously out of fashion like so much else in my wardrobe?

But at least I can afford some clothes now. I’m saving loads of cash these days, money that beforehand would have been thrown away on crisps, chocolates, muffins etc. And of course, pizza. How could I possibly have forgotten pizza? So maybe I should put these newly gained riches towards that big treat for when I do something special, like start running regularly? Some books, perhaps? Yes, perhaps.

Oh, and that word at the start of this piece, leathwake? It’s an old word meaning lithe, or supple. I found it in my new dictionary of obsolete words. I treated myself to it now that I’ve started running regularly.


© 2009 Shaun Finnie