I stepped (staggered, actually) onto the scales an hour ago. 115.2kg blinked up at me.
“Fry up!” I peremptorily bellowed to (feebly whispered in the direction of) The Wife, who has been her usual amazing supportive self throughout this delardification effort. When I crawl in the door, dehydrated and incoherent, there’s a pint glass of strong cordial and ice-cubes waiting for me after my weighting, and two ibuprofen (this latter is in her best interest – it reduces the old-man-groaning-and-kvetching by as much as 16%).
This Fry Up has been a long time coming.
It tasted as good as it looked.
According to the newBMI scale I am now merely overweight, down from obese. In October 2019 I was very severely obese (150kg). I shifted 17kg between then and September 2020, then put 8 of those back on while in Australia (long story). Since January I have been steering clear of ice cream, chocolate, very much beer. I have been yomping around Alexandra Park (2km perimeter) with a weighted jacket (11kgs or so) and a backpack of bricks and weights (21kgs).
I have hit a plateau and I just kept on going.
I am losing weight again.
I am beginning to get some runs in (only 2km so far, but aiming for 5km by the end of the month).
The next seriously big celebration comes when I am no longer obese on the old BMI (which imagines you in 2D, essentially) – 109kg.
After that, the next seriously big celebration comes when (if?) I get under 100kg (arbitrary number, sure, but about as close to a “normal” weight as I imagine myself getting.
In any case, am feeling better, and my blood pressure is down….
Thanks to The Wife, and also the commenters on previous posts who have had good advice and encouragement to offer.