The Tape Measure and the Bruises

So last week sucked ass.  Monday was weigh in and I strutted into gym super confident and full of my own self-importance - as one gets, you know.   I weighed in, took note of the tonnage, and met up with Divine for measurement time.  I waltzed through the gym, smirking knowingly at people, tipping my head in the direction of the regulars, swinging my hips just a little cheekily as I walked up the stairs, sauntering through the sweaty masses towards the room where the tape measure comes into play, joking and laughing loudly with Divine.  After a search for the white measuring tape, Divine had no choice but to opt for the yellow one.  Why on earth is this of any relevance?  Wait.  Just flipping wait!

Armed with this tape measure, we started what I had expected to be a fabulous session of measuring just how very awesome I was. WRONG!!!  The first result - chest measurement - was UP by 2cm.  WTF?  The second measurement - upper arm - up by 1cm.  At this point my smirk had been replaced with a look of abject horror.  Divine remeasured both areas twice - coming up with the same result.  My waist showed a measly drop of 0.4cm, and there was a gain of 2cm and 1.5cm respectively on my hips and thighs.  I wanted to sob.  Even my calf showed a gain of 1cm.  This was all too much to take in.  I was absolutely flummoxed.  So even though my weight had gone down a little more - now at a loss of 18.5kg - all my measurements had gone up.  How the hell could that have happened?   A very subdued training session ensued, with Divine muttering about possible water retention and hormones and stuff, and with me trying to work out how the holy hell I had managed to eat my way up in centimetres but not kilograms.  We decided a re-measure was in order and planned it for that Thursday.  

After gym I slunk into the coffee shop where Divine was chatting to another trainer about the tape measure incident.  Turns out .... now I was also somewhat taken aback .... but the yellow tape measure is wrong.  It isn't measured out correctly or some kak.  Bottom line is, however, that the measurements were all off and that the rapid onset of depression might not have actually been called for.  Holding on to the slim hope that the dude who measured out the spaces on the buggering thing was pissed as a coot when he did so, I went through the next few days alternating between anxious anticipation and misery.

It was a quieter, more subdued, less confident Tracy and Divine who approached the measuring room that Thursday morning.  No laughter echoed through the gym, no sauntering or cheeky hip swaying in evidence.  Just a pale (me), pasty (both of us), worried (Divine) duo heading for our possible execution.  Ok, fine, so maybe that's a little over-dramatic, but I am trying to set the scene here people, bear with me.

Armed with the tatty, frayed white (yay) tape measure we quietly did the math.  The results were as follows (again, total loss, as opposed to latest loss):

Chest: 13.5cm.
Arm: 3.5cm.
Waist: 21.2cm.
Hips: 14.6cm.
Thigh: 9.3cm.
Calf: 3cm.

Total loss in centimetres:  65.1.  BOOM!

65cm television ;)

The relief - you can imagine - was enormous.  However that whole episode took me down a peg or seventeen, and I realised that in reality it is actually damn easy to pick up the weight and centimetres again.  I have got to be super careful that I don't backtrack.  (Especially since all my new clothes are so bloody small and tight now that there's no room for growth, and I've given all my fat clothes away!).

Oh and Divine is going on holiday.  For a month.  In December. Shit.  This means two things:  Firstly, our new goal of 20kg by Christmas has been moved forward by a massive three frikking weeks!

Secondly, I will be training using willpower alone for an entire bloody month.  I will have to do exercise and yell at myself at the same time; count repetitions all the way to 30 without stopping at 7; do the shitty stuff like gogos or burpees or spider walks of my own volition;  spend a full hour on the elliptical machine at a high level, and not chilling at level 2 and reading a book; keep training 5 days a week even though no one will know if I miss a day or two.  Yoh people!  This is going to be the test.  Do I have what it takes to make it through the festive season with my weight and fitness levels in tact?

I have to tell you, however, that Divine has changed from Mr Nice Guy to Mr Doesn't Take Shit! After last week's mma / boxing session I ended up with bruised shins from the kicking bag.  Just FYI - and in case you think I'm doing it wrong - I am supposed to kick with my shins!  Evidence below!

I miss the days when he was all nice and sweet to me during training, saying things like "you are doing well", "you are awesome", "excellent work" and "take a break"!!  This has now changed to "your bob is bad", "your weave is lazy", "faster", "properly", "do it again"! Pffft!  He has  in essence gone from this

to this:

I suppose it's what happens - the natural progression of things, if you will.  He has to push me or I will never get stronger, fitter and (importantly) slimmer!  I do however plan on moaning about it until I am blue - cos that's what I do! So deal!

T
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