Last week was shit for me.
I lost my beautiful and beloved Rosie, and I also lost Jim Riswold … arguably the father of post-modern advertising.
He was a true one-off.
A brilliant, challenging, provocative, confronting, funny, sweet, determined human.
He – like Rosie – had been ill for a while so his death should not have been too much of a surprise, but it was.
It knocked the air out of me.
I know life goes on and I’m incredibly fortunate for the life I have, but sometimes it’s shit.
Proper painful shit. So please excuse me if this weeks posts are a bit all over the place, because it kind of reflects how I’m feeling. Especially as this time next week we face another challenge – albeit this one hopefully will have the happiest of endings.
So with that, let’s get on with this week shall we? Even though it’s a ridiculously long post about me. One that lets me feel a bit proud of myself, rather than glum with myself.
So when I was growing up, I loved sport.
Football.
Running.
Rugby.
BMX.
You name it, I did it. To excess.
But as I got older – and stuff like exams, playing the guitar and video games took over – my love of being physical fell away.
The final ‘nail in the coffin’ – so to speak – was when I was in my late teens had an accident.
While I was patched back together, I was told by Doctors I could not put myself in positions where I lifted anything of considerable weight or put myself in situations where my head could be aggressively shaken as it could cause permanent blindness in my right eye. [It currently only has 12% vision]
Obviously, the idea of that was terrifying, so I took their advice seriously … replacing what little exercise I was still doing with eating.
I can’t say it was a hardship because it wasn’t.
I loved it.
And that was the problem, because I couldn’t get enough of it … even when I would occasionally get on the scales at home and get alarmed at the number I kept seeing rise.
I still remember reading an interview about Queen’s bass player, John Deacon, and being confused how he could be 5 foot 11 and weigh 10 stone/63 kilos when I was younger and shorter than him, and yet still weighed more than him.
Of course, the reason for it was obvious, but I mentally didn’t want to accept that, so instead I just carried on in my delusional state and tried to put it out of my mind.
And as much as I was semi-successful in achieving this, I wasn’t totally successful. Because as I wrote previously … it was an issue that continued to affect me, or should I say undermine me, but I just felt helpless to be able to properly deal with it.
I know … that sounds pathetic, but it’s true. So, I just tried to distract myself with other stuff – which often revolved around doing things involving food. Again.
Sure, there were the odd occasions where I found the strength to try and deal with my situation – and it had a positive effect – but I could never keep it up beyond a few weeks because, well … the temptation of kebab and chips with salt and vinegar was more seductive to me than a room full of the latest Wi-Fi enabled gadgets.
But 10 and a half months ago, something happened that fundamentally changed my mindset.
And so instead of knowing I needed to do something about it, I decided to do something about it. Albeit for 3 months.
And that changed everything … because suddenly I accepted I would have to make ongoing choices rather than expect change to happen by itself.
It’s part of the reason I was so open about what I was doing, because I felt the more people who knew, the less easy it would be for me to just walk away from doing it.
And it seemed to work because the people I was surrounded by, played such a big part in my ability to stick with it.
That and my bank balance.
Because everyone – and by that, I mean my family, my work, my clients and my Doctor – rallied around me to not only offer support, but to try and make it as easy as possible for me.
Organising food … making food … identifying food … and even – thanks to my fashion client – sending me a copious amount of ever-smaller sized free designer clothes to keep me motivated in my challenge. Meanwhile my bank balance allowed me to keep buying the bloody expensive ingredients – and sweet treat alternatives – that ensured I didn’t feel I was completely denying myself as I kept choosing the smarter choice.
I do not underestimate the impact all this had on me, because without it, I don’t know if I could have kept going as consistently as I did.
Not just because they helped make it easier, but they helped me keep my resolve when we’re literally surrounded by temptation.
Fast food.
TV shows.
Social media.
Endless online food reviewers.
The rise of competitive food gluttony … which, I must admit, I torture myself with watching, whether it’s Rate My Takeaway, Beard Meets Food, Erik The Electric, Harrison Webb, Sir Yacht, Gary Eats, Jolly, JacksDiningRoom, HowKevEats or Leah Shutkever.
But despite all that, 3 months turned to 6 months which turned to 9 months.
I bought a treadmill that [eventually] encouraged me to start doing a bunch of walking which turned into a bunch of running.
And 11 and a half months later, I write this being able to say I have not only lost 42kg, but I’ve achieved healthy’ status on the BMI scale.
That, for me, is literally like I’ve achieved the impossible.
I say that, because when I started this whole adventure, I looked up what weight I’d have to be to be ‘healthy’ on the BMI scale and laughed out loud.
There was no way that was going to happen.
But slowly but surely, weight dropped and my competitive streak kicked in and things went from impossible dream to focused goal.
And as the photo below demonstrates, here we are …
Now I am not going to say I don’t still have cravings.
I miss bread with every fiber of my body.
In fact, for my birthday, I bought a loaf of sour dough, salted butter and raspberry jam and ate the whole lot in a day.
And I fucking loved it.
But the difference is, as much as I could have done it the next day – and the next – I didn’t.
And it’s that enlightenment that I deem as one of my biggest successes … which you need, because the weight journey is a complete fucking rollercoaster.
So while I no longer fear getting on the scales … or taking my blood pressure … the numbers are never consistent.
Slightly up. Slightly down. And sometimes – where the scales are concerned – steadfastly refusing to reduce despite trying your hardest to be good for weeks.
Nothing tests your resolve than that, let me tell you.
But while I have achieved my goal, what is important is my ability to stay there.
My biggest challenge is winter – a time where the temptation to fill yourself with comfort food is huge – but so far so good. Albeit because of the people around me, the app ‘Lose It’, and my brain finally preferring how healthier feels rather than how temptation tastes.
I don’t mean that in a toxic way, but in terms of my emotional state.
I almost like myself. And I definitely like that I’ve increased the likelihood I’ll be around for longer for my wife and son.
And hey, they even seem to be happy about it.
So, while Monday’s may typically be the worst day of the week – especially after the week I had last week – today I enter it with a smile. Or at least a bit of one.
It won’t last, but hopefully my commitment to being kind and good to myself does.
Even if every now and then, an entire loaf of sourdough bread – with salted butter and raspberry jam – gets shoved down my mouth.
