Fitness

I've spent 25 years on this planet, and nearly all of those I could whatever the hell I liked, knowing that pure fat and salt seemed to magically converted into more space to eat more pies. I could eat two fudge cakes and lose weight, it was ace.

Until the past few months, the past few months I could inhale and gain half a pound from the dust. My metabolism has clearly decided that now I'm quarter of a century old, that being enviably lithe with the appetite of a medium sized shark is no longer a priority.
Nope, now the appetite rages on, but so does the waistline.

Action was required, and this is what this blog post, and subsequent updates will cover.

I want to be fit, I want my Master to be proud of his boy, to have a nice bod that people won't run screaming from at the pool. I want to fill a tanktop without a small wobbly moon hanging out of the bottom.

For this I need Sir's help, my willpower in the face of a double cheeseburger is somewhat limited. I could quite merrily replace oxygen with KFC on an average day. This boy needed rules.

And rules he got.

No fast food, no crisps, chocolate, pizza, cheese and other fatty dairy, no pies, no pasties, nothing high in saturates, no sugary puddings. At the time I dismissed this as leaving me with little else to eat besides 'clouds and air'.
The truth is, in three months I've managed to pretty much constantly follow this whilst having a highly nommable diet. Yes, I could merrily sell my own legs for a Big Mac, but the only thing I've had from the golden arches have been a few consented milkshakes.

Sushi, fruit, low fat yoghurt, wholemeal sandwiches, salad, light wraps, more sushi, lots of chicken, pastas and I'm not dead. I'm happy, I've watched myself get better. It's ace.

I started with watermelon syndrome, hiding a large oval fruit over my belly under my top. My abs disappeared, my hips got grabflab. It was rubbish, I didn't have scales but I must have been well over 13 stone, verging 14.
As a boy who was 10st10 for YEARS this is somewhat alarming. I bought scales last week, assuming since I'd lost loads of weight and the last time I'd weighed myself I was 12st7, I'd bought them primarily for the smugness factor of seeing 11 stone something once again.

Step on. 12 stone 10. Whoa, okay? That was not expected. I was the heaviest I'd ever been, and I could visibly see where I had lost the weight back off again. Thank christ I didn't have scales during my watermelon era. I think I'd have bought Bulemia for Beginners.

So here I am, feeling better, until this morning. I weighed myself. 12 stone 13. Sir let me have fried chicken as a treat on Monday, that had clearly laid several eggs inside me and hatched chickens made out of lead cholesterol. Bastards.

So that's where I am, if I eat anything fattier than water I gain weight. The depressing truth is, it's time to calorie count. Fuck you body!

I start a new job in a week, and with it comes a lot more freedom, and a lot less lethargy. So it'll be time for phase two (which currently would kill me)... EXERCISE.

We'll see how that goes shall we?

Boy x


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