In a new weekly feature, Her.ie newbie Liz is going to share her weight loss journey. She’ll be filling you in on fighting temptation, her willpower struggles with the cocktail menu and taking painfully slow steps towards regular exercise. All in the name of a dress.
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Hanging on the wall at the end of my bed is the constant reminder I plan on shedding nearly two stone this year. I also plan on marking the trials and tribulations of ‘trying to be good’ – the favourite saying we all tout, and quickly replace when a cake is put in front of us.
Week 13: Admitting I'm Scared
I am personally bringing a whole new meaning to yo-yo dieting. Instead of jumping from one fad to the next, my weight is taking on the lose a pound, gain a pound plateau effect that is slowly driving me crazy.
Plateau? I just want my tummy to be flateau. End of.
Another week, another pound down, which left me with a bit of a catch 22 for being excited. I was obviously over the moon to be down another pound, but I really couldn’t help but feel a sense of injustice that I was back in the same place I’d been two weeks ago.
The scariest part of all? I’ve only a handful of weeks left until my self-imposed deadline, and I’ve still got close to a stone to lose. I know I’m doing all the things I’m meant to be doing, and I’m doing it right, but here’s the catch. I can’t control how my body is going to react. The initial weight loss was amazing, but if I’m honest, there’s a strong chance that was purely my body in shock that I was biting into a brussel sprout rather than munching on a Yorkie bar.
So in case you haven’t figured it out yet, I’m going to hold my hands up and admit I’ve always been one of those annoying over-achiever kids. Not because I’m naturally the smartest kid in class, but normally because I’d force myself to study for longer, read that little bit longer, you know – a complete nerd.
I wouldn’t even say it’s a case of ambition or competition. I guess I just wanted to always try my very best. It was something my mam used to say to all of us whenever we came home crying from an exam, or disappointed with a match result.
I’ll never forget trying to learn trigonometry in secondary school. They may as well have taught the class in Arabic for all it meant to me. The whole thing was above my head. To this day I shudder thinking about those cos/tan formulae, but back then, eugh. It
really got to me that I couldn’t work through the equations, and I wasn’t the only one.
When they had a test in class, a good 10 of us failed. This was the only time I’ve ever failed a test and I’m still a little bitter having to write it. The teacher took me aside as a result and after spending a few extra minutes going through the exam it started falling into place. But it was too late. I still had to get my test signed.
My mam wasn’t a strict woman, but she had a massive value on education. Failing, in my head, was not an option. She was in the kitchen cooking when I went in with the test half folded, half scrunched up in my hand. She could see something was bothering me straight away and pulled over a stool to the oven so I could sit and talk while she kept working.
I explained everything, how I’d tried to understand, had been working on my maths skills, had studied for the test, but nothing had worked. Then I pulled out the test for signing. My heart was in my mouth.
“Once you do your best, then that’s all I could ask for. Sure, don’t I see you working away? No, if you know there’s nothing else you could’ve done, well then I’m happy you’ve given it your best shot. That’s all I want from you.”
She signed the paper, gave me a hug and told me not to be worrying. Then she moved onto checking in on how rehearsals were going for a show I was in, and we chatted away while she made the dinner.
That was my mam summed up, and that advice is something my brothers and sisters still recall any time things didn’t work out exactly as planned. Once you try your absolute best, well you know you’ve given it all.
It’s for this same reason I’m guessing some women never admit to anyone they’re in battle against their bulge, for fear of embarrassment if they never make target.
If you know me in person you’ll know I’m chatty. I also love to laugh and I have an annoying habit of singing while I cook/clean/shower etc. I take part in shows and musicals, and love to dance. But I’m also incredibly self-conscious.
I can be in character on stage, or when I’m chatting away, it’s with friends. Singing to myself has the added bonus of a restricted audience, even if it does look a little crazy at times. So I can’t say I’m shy, but when it comes to my body, my appearance, well that feeling of assurance takes a massive back seat.
I’d rather not look in a mirror for hours, and nights out involve 20 minutes doing hair and make-up and probably a solid hour of a revolving wardrobe on my body, trying to pick something that won’t make me feel like an elephant in heels. I may be a stone down, but I’m far from feeling like a slinky lady.
So, I’m genuinely nervous. What if in a few weeks’ time I pull on that dress and it’s a battle to the death (ok, with a zipper) to try and get it to close up the back? What if I don’t make my deadline and I have to write it down for everyone to read?
I’m at week 13, with 12 pounds to go, and I have a solid case of the fear this morning that has nothing to do with a glass of wine too many last night.
The countdown is on.
This week’s stats go a little something like this -
Height: 5ft 8
Starting Weight: 174 lbs
Current Weight: 160.5 lbs
Weight Loss To Date: 14.5 lb
Goal: 148 lbs
Feeling: The nerves kicking in...
The Dress in Question:
