Well, I guess now people know about the blog, right? Because I told them about it. Shit. I didn’t think that through.
Just FYI, it’s all downhill from here. Expect, maybe, three more posts before I delete this blog, delete my social media, smash my laptop into tiny shards of regret and set my flat on fire because I’ve concluded that I’m not capable of this kind of commitment.
But before this inevitability – here’s an update on my monthly resolutions now that January is over and done with (quick Q: when the FUCK did January happen?!)
Anyway, I think I’ve mentioned approximately 201 million times that I gained a bunch of weight back over Christmas. To say I ate all the cheese would be a gross understatement because, at one point, I literally had to go and buy more cheese since there was none left for my family. For the better part of a fortnight, my parents’ couch became pretty pally with my arsecheeks and, I’ll admit, I lost my drive and found an appreciation for Ferrero Rocher breakfasts.
Annoyingly, after plateauing like a motherfucker after weight-loss, an increase in my calorie intake meant my body drank it up like a thirsty bitch. Stupid thirsty bitch body.
So my first week home saw me back at the gym, booking in with a PT (who I very much think is an actual machine) and trying to understand how the fuck to gym.
Remember I challenged myself to lose 8lbs in January? Well, fucking YES I DID! I lost 10lbs, 4 inches, 8% body fat and, most importantly, my overwhelming urge to have chocolate breakfasts! Smashed it. Insert relevant gym emoji here!
And here’s some nonsense I’ve learned so far:
1. I don’t really get carbs
All I know is that they are in fucking EVERYTHING. And I don’t think I’ll ever fully grasp what they are and why they’re bad – no matter how many people explain it to me (please don’t try…)
2. Monday weigh-ins are the WORST
Have a pee. Have a poo. Hell, lob off a leg! Your carefree weekend will still see you start your week off with a big, fat, boot to the groin! I mean, I know it’s fine, but sometimes you just want to start your week with a healthy dose of denial, amIright?!
3. Nailing gym jargon is a necessity
Supersets. Work-ins. Lat-pull-press-push-bars?
I literally yelped the moment a man asked if he could “work in” with me. What on EARTH did he mean?! Was this some sort of threat? Or, perhaps, flirtation? Maybe both. Anyway, I probably shouldn’t have tried to kiss him.
4. Internal changes are worthy of celebration too
Like a lot of people, I started going to the gym to get healthy. Yay fitness! But, I’ll be honest, there was a vain part of me that wanted to look better, be more comfortable in clothes and not feel like utter shit next to my godly girlfriends.
Not necessarily with the end game of attracting a mans (“hello? Is it internal misogyny you’re looking for?”) but so I would no longer want to body slam myself into mirrors as a coping mechanism when met with my reflection.
Anyway, changing how you look is fucking hard. Has anyone ever mentioned this?! They really should talk about it more…
I was shedding pounds but not dress sizes. It took me waving a story I found about some dude who was “genetically programmed to be fat forever” in my PT’s face, while they calmly explained visceral fat, for me to buy into the #nonscalevictory trend.
Sure it’d be sweet to squish my hips into size 10 jeans eventually, but I’m more into not having kidneys the size of cabbages in my gut, y’know?
5. Gym romance isn’t a thing
I’m sorry, but Tammy Hembrow is a glorious unicorn who I’m still not sure actually exists. Her adorable social media snaps of her and her beau lifting and loving together give me all kinds of jealousy pangs. This is probably because he can lift her over his head with a pinky, while I once fell over and had to haul myself up via a lamppost, because my fella couldn’t peel me off the ground due to my lard ass.
It’s also super hard to feel appealing when you’ve sweated through your ripped Pearl Jam tshirt and your beetroot face matches your equally bright red hair.
6. You’re an inconvenience to everyone
Fuck. Me. It’s impossible to be a n00b at the gym. Even if you muster up enough courage to work in with someone, even the slightest variation on their reps deems you the ABSOLUTE WORST TYPE OF HUMAN!
They’re benching 60kg? Take your 55kg and quick-jab it in the throat because you are a piece of shit virgin who will never understand life and, you know what, no wonder your dad doesn’t love you because who ever will?!!!!!!!!!!
Or something along those lines.
7. Wine ACTUALLY DOES HAVE A WHOLE BUNCH OF CALORIES
I’d often chuckle at “hilarious” memes about women having fruit salads but it actually being wine. Hahahaaaaaa. Hilare. Because grapes, right? Urgh, us women. What are we like?!
Honestly, for the longest time, I refused to believe that my one true love, Pinotage Pete, would ever betray me and add volume to my waistline. But apparently he’s as much of an asshole as the afore-mentioned gym-dwellers. So maybe I should stop having a “cheeky wee glass” every second night?… Well, maybe is a loaded word. But we’ll see!
8. Riots not diets
I actually hate the term “riots not diets” but I love a good rhyme. Basically, what I’m saying here, is that there are no quick fixes. Again, has anyone ever mentioned this?!
There are more things to life than trying to drop a shit-tonne of weight in a short amount of time. There are things like baked Camembert, tiger bread, Kinder Buenos and Ristorante pizzas. All of which, I’m now understanding, are totally Coolio Inglesias, so long as you don’t scoff all of them 24/7, curled in bed and only moving to pee. I’m looking at you, Victoria of 10 months ago!
Do you, boo. Just look after yourself!