I can now do up two buttons on my coat (unless I breathe, then it’s one); it’s a great accomplishment, mitigated only by the fact that I’m now colder than ever, due to losing the layer of fat that was preventing me from buttoning up my coat. This absurdity is unfortunate, because the Island is currently hosting wind from Siberia, and it’s colder out there than an undertaker’s fancy woman.
According to Ma, it’s not as cold as the winter of 1947 (the winter all old people refer to, to prove they have endured greater hardships than us youngins). I should point out that Ma wasn’t even alive in 1947 – not that you could tell her that. You see, Ma has what you might call age-dysmorphia, that is, she thinks she’s way older than she actually is. She seems to think she’s knocking on 99, when, in fact, she’s only 60 something. She likes to cite the significant decline in her mental faculties as proof of her great age; the family, hard pressed to think of a time she was cleverer, are left mystified as to what faculties she’s referring to. None-the-less, Ma’s convinced they are gone, and that doom lies around the corner; for, aside from her waning mental acuity, Ma is very afraid: not of death, as you might expect, but that she’ll end up living with me (to be fair, I’m not immune to the palpitation inducing effects of such an idea). She is particularly afraid that I’ll put bows in her hair and chatter nonsense while pushing her around town in a wheelchair. To allay her fears, I recently found a mobility solution that will ensure she remains in control of her whereabouts – though I have made no promises about the bows and nonsense chatter.
It stands to reason, as time goes on, that the numbers at Fat Club will diminish; mostly because being on a diet is boring. Not only do you not have much fun (by fun, I mean cake and chocolate washed down with alcohol), but those around you have no fun either – if they know what’s good for them. When it’s 7 weeks in and the Siberian winds are blowing, a few carrots and a bowl of spinach leaves just ain’t going to cut it for most people, and it’s only the most dedicated (read, boring) souls that are going to carry on.
Being something of a dullard, I trotted off to Fat Club this week and was unsurprised to find, instead of the usual 100 people or so, there was only 10. I hadn’t been there long when I was joined by the lovely Maisy. Although Maisy and I work in the same office, we are there on different days, so Fat Club is the perfect opportunity to catch up. This week, we both had the added bonus of losing weight – Maisy 1 1/2 lbs and me 2 1/2 – each earning for ourselves a certificate for a 5% and 10% loss respectively. Except for my coat button and one-notch-in on my Fitbit, I can’t really tell that I have lost weight; never-the-less, I definitely know I am dull enough to see the diet through too the end.
Daisy and Mabel didn’t make it to Fat Club this week; that’s because Daisy was at a party, for which she had plenty of spare points to use up – on account of her flu-induced starvation rations earlier in the week, and Mabel was at home making the most of her time with her family.