Our start to healthy eating has been rocky to say the least. On New Year’s Eve, a brand new pair of scales arrived, which promised to measure not only our weight, but our body fat, bone mass, muscle mass and about twenty other metrics that I didn’t even know about.
On New Year’s Eve, the weigh-in commenced, and a target of 5% body weight loss for both of us was set.
The first hurdle was Yolanda – our scales – more commonly referred to as “that bitch, Yolanda”. Yolanda measured my BMR. I didn’t even know what a BMR was. It stands for “basic metabolic rate”, meaning the “minimum necessary energy to sustain life”. Mine measured as “does not meet standard”. So, much like Marley in A Christmas Carol, apparently I was dead to begin with.
That bitch, Yolanda, then told me that 32% of me was made of fat and my muscle mass was inadequate. TheBloke (TM) cackled smugly.
So I have been being really well behaved with my eating. I have made big batches of soup each weekend and eaten it faithfully for lunch every day, sometimes with a slice of wholemeal toast if I’m feeling especially peckish. A well-balanced dinner has been lovingly cooked from scratch every night. Last night I ate a fairly vast amount of cabbage.
I did a workout that left me so sore that I genuinely struggled to get out of the bath two whole days later, flopping around like a tortoise on its back as my stomach muscles refused to comply with an additional sit-up.
After nine days, I have lost 200g. For context, this is equivalent to a large muffin.
Yesterday we went to Milton Keynes for a spot of shopping. Conscious of not wanting to eat crap, I didn’t eat whilst we were out, instead waiting until we got home, when I had a big bowl of homemade celeriac and chorizo soup. TheBloke (TM), however, on arriving at the shopping centre, made Greggs his first stop for a sausage roll… and then ate a Burger King cheeseburger, onion rings, fries, chicken nuggets and a fat Coke for lunch.
He has lost two kilograms.
I am beyond livid. I am considering spiking his dinner with lard, but he’d probably only lose another six kilograms out of sheer spite.
Yesterday, after the soup-and-cabbage extravaganza, I put on 50g. I am so upset that I am thinking of writing to my MP.
If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. So, I think the only solution is for me to get to KFC as quickly as my chubby little legs will carry me, where I can chomp myself thin. To be fair, if this actually works, I think we have the basis for a very successful weight-loss book. I will call it Gorge-ous.