There comes a point in every person’s life when you must stop blaming your washing machine for your clothes shrinking and face the fact. You’ve comfort eaten your way to being a stone heavier and in my case, it’s settled nicely around your middle. The most unwanted of guests. Not for you the even distribution of a few pounds here and there, effectively balancing you out, causing little concern. No, mine settles on the part of my body where doctors raise their eyebrows and start muttering about apple shapes, visceral fat and how this unseemly gathering of flab can affect your overall physical wellbeing.
You’ve swerved the red flags for months.
The shapeless top which effectively reduces you to an oversized top-on-tour, with a human hidden somewhere inside its fulsome folds. The snazzy fitted jacket you felt a million dollars in when you wore it to your book launch last year. Okay you can’t fasten the buttons, or you can if you opt out of breathing for the duration and stand upright, not moving a muscle in case, like a tub of Pringles you start popping. As we know, once you pop you can’t stop, buttons disappearing into the ether, another jacket protesting under the strain. Return me to the rail or start counting your calories!
Then of course there’s the health red flags, in my case the resurrection of childhood asthma which has been a constant companion this last few months. Now I know the intense heat is not good for us wheezily disposed folk, but I also know that excess weight around the middle and a diet bursting with fruit and veg albeit with a significant side of sugar, is not the best way to manage it.
All the signs were pointing to a fitness overhaul. Yet I continued to defend the biscuit barrel as my daily treat. I don’t drink alcohol so what harm can the occasional rich and buttery shortbread do to me? Except it was not occasional.
Add to this my profession. Being a writer of the voracious variety, I spend a fair old chunk of my day lunching over my laptop, making frequent forays into the kitchen where the biscuits and cakes are calling out, giving my five a day a whole new meaning. Add to this sugar fest, the ice creams. We’re in the middle of a heat wave, so who doesn’t want an iced chunky chocolate confection. And why stop at one. Hot weather calls for cooling down and what better way to feel the freeze and do it anyway than with a few of these moreish morsels?
You cannot ignore the mounting evidence that your wildly ways are leading you down a rabbit hole, one that eventually you’ll become wedged in. You spend your time gazing wistfully at the wardrobe that no longer fits, scowling at the bizarre rag tag and bobtail assortment of Lycra infused leggings, billowy blouses, and floaty frocks, that really are just not you.
After several weeks of reflecting on my rising weight, usually munching on a buttery biscuit I decided I’d had enough. Wheezing, sneezing, trading up two sizes and raiding the biscuit barrel had to end.
Although the seed was sown, I did nothing for another few weeks and then serendipity knocked on my door. Or rather, we knocked on hers.
Now, unless you’ve been living under a rock this last few weeks, you will know that Lucy (the fine editor and founder of Sussex Exclusive) and I have launched a glossy and gorgeous print magazine. We have spent months sweating over this publication (magnifying glass in one hand to spot errant commas and rambling prose, munch fodder in the other). Fabulous publication fresh from the printers, we embarked on the mother of all distribution forays. Think hand to hand combat; not placing piles in corners of hotels to gather dust. We’ve been chatting, snacking, chatting, marvelling at our ability to demolish millionaire shortbread in three big bites, muttering we’d really had enough.
And then we alighted on Sunrise Nutrition.
This fine, get-you-fit-and-fabulous business, is headed up by none other than my next door neighbour Jeannine. I was confident she would take several copies of our magazine for her clientele and so we arranged to meet.
There’s nothing quite like a bright eyed and bushy tailed neighbour looking trim and happy, exuding good health and vitality to make you expand the conversation beyond the praise being lavished on your magazine. What was her secret? Tell us more. And so, she did.
I bit the bullet and asked Jeannine if she would whip out her wellbeing kit in the form of a fitness MOT and read the stats to me. Ten minutes later and the statistics confirmed my suspicions. Nowhere to hide, banged to rights, that middle has got to go! The MOT looked at my metabolic age, hydration levels, muscle mass, which category my excess flab fits into. Whilst it was not horrendous, it was enough to be ’cause for concern’ as my maths teacher would repeatedly say as I suffered under his tenure. The stats could not be shoved under the carpet.
Sign me up neighbour! I’m all yours.
Today was my first official visit, spent glugging a quite delightful tea I am told will burn off calories faster than a turn with Usain Bolt, drinking vitamin and mineral infused shakes and stepping on the fancy scales which told me I had shed a few pounds since the wellbeing MOT. (Sorry I don’t do kilos.) There’s a way to go but I have embarked on the Let’s-get-Dee-wheezy free-and-fit campaign for the autumn. That glint is in my eye. I have let go of the buttery biscuits, chocolate confections and calorie drenched cakes.
In their place I now have nutrition bars, shakes and more healthy fruit and veg than you can shake a stick at. And I have managed to stick one foot in front of another and walk further than the front door to my car. I am now walking the 20 minute journey to Sunrise Nutrition and back. Get me. I might even become fit and fabulous at 64.
Watch this space I will provide updates on how I’m faring.
This photo of me with my gorgeous little grandson Callum was the tipping point. Whilst my son Steven kindly remarked it was the way I was sitting; there’s no hiding that mischievous middle.
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