CALORIE COUNTING MACHINE

I’ve had an epiphany.

At 41.5 years of age, I’ve finally realised that I’ve been doing it all wrong.

I’ve finally realised that I haven’t been listening to my body.  In fact, I’ve been flat out ignoring it.

For years, I thought that I was doing well, when in reality, I was destroying myself.

I’d made up all of the excuses under the sun (some of them were actually legitimate), to try and accept why everything’s been going pear shaped.  Literally.

Don’t get me wrong; I have been doing well.  Certainly better than a lot of others.  I don’t eat copious amounts of junk food, deep fried foods or processed foods.  I don’t drink, nor do I smoke, I drink copious amounts of water, and I go to the gym.

Surely that was good enough? Right?

Wrong.

I was kidding myself, and my poor body was desperately trying to tell me, and I wasn’t listening.

For that, I’m sorry.  Fuck… I’ve been given this precious gift of a body to carry my soul around in, and I’ve just fucked it completely.  What the fuck have I done?

I can’t exchange it; it’s all I’ve got.  Sure, I can repair it, modify it, replace parts, enhance features and fix things when they break down, but why go through all of that when I could have simply looked after it better in the first place?

Everyone’s body is different.  Some bodies can handle certain things, and some can’t.  Maybe mine is one of those bodies that can’t handle things, and has to be treated with a little more care.

*shakes head* fuck I’m a dumbarse sometimes.  I simply astound myself when at times I’m so completely awesome that I shit myself, and other times, I’m as dumb as a fucken house brick.

And, it took a 25 year old personal trainer to make me understand that. 

How? Well, I don’t know, really.  She didn’t do anything extraordinary.  She didn’t scream at me, slap me or read me the riot act. She did nothing more than she would have done for any other member of the gym, however… what she said and how she said it somehow hammered home.

I don’t even think she realises the impact she’s had.  She can see the results, but I don’t think she fully understands.

Let me explain.

I’ve been banging away at the gym for quite some time now, and simply showing no results. 

I’m feeling better.  I’m stronger, faster and fitter than I use to be.  I’ve even dropped two jean sizes (and yes, I do by the same brand of jeans all the time). 

However, I haven’t dropped any weight for a long time.  I’ve been trying to convince myself that it’s not all about numbers; it’s about how you feel.  Well, that’s true to a point, but when you really want to lose fifty to sixty kilos, what the fuck are you supposed to do?

Something wasn’t working here, and after a disappointing weigh in at the gym (the results of which took a considerable effort not to burst into hysterical tears over), my trainer looked at me and said ‘it’s time to fill out a food diary, my love.’

So, for the next week, I wrote down everything I ate, drank and burnt (exercise); warts and all.

I also, with the assistance of an iphone app called My Fitness Pal (which you can also use online, and it’s free), I counted the calories.

When Carina (the personal trainer) assessed my diary, two things were clear.  Although I was eating relatively well, I was consuming too many calories.  I also wasn’t burning them.

Now I’ve been to gyms before where they focus on both exercise and diet, but I’ve never had anyone explain it to me so well, because for the first time in my forty odd years, I got it.

I understood.  Not only where I was going wrong, but how to fix it.

It was simple, really.  Carina set me a calorie bracket to work to, and told me I had to increase my exercise, and be smarter with my food choices.  We worked out a plan on how to do it, and four weeks later, 3.6 kilo’s have gone.

And still going.

However, it’s not easy, and this is where the epiphany came into it.

You see, to me, a diet meant that I missed out on all of the good things in life.  I can’t have chocolate (OMG!), pizza, hot chips, twisties, decadent desserts, chicken parmi’s… none of that.  Why punish myself?

Simple.

It’s not punishment.  It’s maintenance.  What you put into your body is simply fuel for it to run.  The shittier the fuel, the shittier it will run.

41.5 fucken years to work that out, mate.  Fuck me…

Easiest way to keep track of it all is by counting the calories, and not just the calories you consume, but the calories you burn. 

I’ve turned into a calorie counting machine.

Yep; I’ve turned into one of those people. 

You know the type, because you see them all the time.  They’re the ones in the supermarket you see stand there reading package labels, dressed in sneakers, leggings and a tank top, with their hair tied in a pony tail. 

That’s me.  One of those people.

Gaaaa… *sigh*

My week is a series of trying to fall between 1000 and 1500 calories a day (the closer to 1000 the better).  Monday is gym and water aerobics, Tuesday was tennis, but that’s finished now, so I’ll be back to the gym on that day.  As well as Wednesday, Thursday and Friday.  Saturday is water aerobics and gym too, and Sunday is my day of rest.  I figure if it’s okay for God, then its okay for me. J

It’s not easy, and at not point would I call any of it ‘fun’.  However, I must do this.  I must undo everything that I’ve done to myself; or at least salvage what’s left. 

So now, instead of feeling guilty about everything I put in my mouth, and pumping away at exercise in a half-hearted manner because it’s what I think I should be doing, I now understand that it’s fuel and maintenance.

So, I feel for the first time in God knows how many years, like I know what I’m doing.  I think I am getting my head around this calorie thing, and I can see the physical results of my efforts.

I’m scared that I won’t stick to it.  I’m scared that something will come along and knock me off track.  However, I just have to remember that no matter what happens, I can stop; check myself, and come back to ‘the plan’.  I can always start again.

When I had my food diary over to Carina each week, the one thing I don’t feel is judgement.  No judgement, no guilt and no panic.  Carina doesn’t rebuke me like a naughty child.  She understands that I’m human, and will analyse everything, ask me a million questions and make a million notes for me. 

All to help me stay on track, and my broken, beaten body appreciates it. 

A few months ago, if my body was a car, you would’ve called Sims Metal and had me carted away for scrap.

How, I think I’m in the hands of someone that loves to take a classic old model and lovingly restore it.  She knows that it will take a long time; maybe even years.  However, in the end, it will be just as good as new.

That’s the plan, anyway.

Peace out.

PS: if you’re interested in the calorie counting application, check it out at the following link.  It's not gospel, but it's a damn good guide.

http://www.myfitnesspal.com/.