I’ve Messed Up. I’m The Fattest I’ve Been In Quite Some Time.

I weighed myself this morning and I’m 217 pounds (15 stone 7 pounds) which is the largest I’ve been since I started this blog 2 years ago.

Holy fucking hell. This is not good news.

Especially when I’m meant to be a ‘healthy living blogger’ (whatever the fuck that’s meant to mean).

It doesn’t feel great to be getting fatter. My friends try to say that I’m OK and that it’s natural to be gaining weight but here are 5 reasons why it’s not OK and why this whole holiday season is making me irritable and really fucking miserable.

1. My clothes aren’t fitting great – I fucking hate that feeling you get when your clothes are tight, you’re all sweaty and bursting with fucking hatred within. What can you do but eat another pie to try to take the discomfort away?
2. I’m sweating all of the time and that puts a dampener on my confidence – When I was a fat man I’d be glad of rain as if someone asked me ‘are you sweating dude?’ I’d have an excuse.  I’m not sweating when I walk at the moment but if I continue to let this shit slide, I will get there and fast.
3. I’m growing tired of people saying “relax, it’s Christmas, gorge yourself silly!” – Fuck off. I gorge myself silly all year around and it doesn’t make for a happier Angry Jogger. I am not honouring any deities through my decadence and neither are you with your face full of Tunnock’s Tea Cakes.
4. I’m slowly losing my mind with the festivities and that makes me want to eat pies and glass –I fucking hate John Lennon. I hate Shane McGowan. I’d be happy if Noddy Holder died tomorrow. Christmas music sends me over the fucking edge. I’d rather listen to Satan knocking his rod off a Shure SM58 microphone for 30 minutes than ever be subjected to another Christmas song ever again.

   
   We got Bin Laden, but Noddy Holder is still at large for his war crimes. 

5. And we’ve another week of this left – A week of spending our lives with people we don’t even know anymore. Of reminiscing over a past that was only marginally less shitty than the present, gigging about the time your dead uncle Derek left a rubber up the mail man. Another week of lounging around drinking shitty whiskey to stave off boredom and/or panic attacks that are spurred on by the teary thought that you’ll only be able to listen to that hippy Lennon wanking on about ‘War Being Over’ for 45-50 more Winters until you succumb to your own great Night.

Now that I’ve finished that rant, I want to start on a new one about weight.

When you gain weight the temptation is to give in, buy bigger clothes, accept that you’re ‘born this way’ as a fatty and continue on in a never-ending cycle of becoming chubbier.

It’s all bullshit.

We’re all born differently.

But we all metabolise cake in largely the same way.

You gain weight through poor choices. It all boils down to whether you eat the cake or don’t eat the fucking cake.

Loving cake isn’t genetic. It’s human. I won’t go into the science of it as I’m a stupid motherfucker, but my point is that if you enjoy the cake you either have to eat less of it or balance it out with a little exercise.

You only start to gain weight majorly when you put your head in the sand and stop being accountable to yourself.

Positive changes afoot.

I could become annoyed with myself and/or think that my life as a runner is over, but I’m not gonna fall into that trap.

In December 2010 I was 217lbs. At that time I was bracing myself for the Belfast Marathon 5 months later and I could barely run a mile at the time.

I’m 217lbs now and I can cover 10 miles with the same amount of effort.

I can still eat what I want now. The fact is I don’t want to eat any more chocolate or cheese. I’m fucking sickened of junk food now. It doesn’t bring joy to my heart.

I want to spend the next week off work running as much as I can and trying to release this hatred in a natural way.

Otherwise I’m gonna end up on the news.