It’s our first day back from visiting a friend in Hull. I have two smallish children in the house who have forgotten how to play, think and move without the constant companion of electronic stimulation. It’s fascinating to watch their brains lurch into gear having spent the last couple of days welded to screens and a variety of handheld controls. My capacity for tolerating whingeing, whining and moaning is being truly tested. Bless...the summer holidays are truly upon us.
I am now at the crisis mid-point of projectforty. The last couple of weeks have been woefully inactive and off-plan.
Pounds lost = 0. Sessions of 30 mins or more physical activity = 0.
Crap food eaten = mountain. Fruit/healthy food eaten = bowlful.
My panic is growing as the village hall is now booked for 20th October. If I don’t get busy I’m going to look like I do. Looking like I do is OK when I only really see people I see most weeks. Looking like I do when I might see people I haven’t seen for a long time is not good at all.
I’ve never been terribly glamorous but, I don’t think I ever look awful. Tired, yes. Shabbier rather than chic but not truly awful. Now though, if I say I need to make the effort, no-one disagrees with me. A sure sign that, yes, I need to get cracking.
I’m well into the final 10 weeks before the big day. No more winey evenings with mates, no more snacky chocolate and no more sitting about watching my hips widen.
I'm almost at the point of keeping a food diary - how low can one woman sink for vanity?