The un-fatness plan is not going as anticipated. Initially I put on 4 pounds, then lost 6 and now, having put on two I am back to where I started. Today I briefly considered unearthing the ankle weights buried under my bed to add them to the plan. Then I remembered the last time I tried to use them…
…I decided to invest in some sandbag type affairs that can be Velcro-ed around your wrists or ankles. I dismissed the feeling that they would be put to better use in areas of flooding than attached to me and dug out some deliciously un-flattering Lycra (well you have to look the part…).
Lucifer (my old cat – the one intent on world domination, but now planning this from the cat basket in the sky) stared in disbelief as I struggled, cowboy like to the back door, holding on to walls for support and pushed myself though a series of step ups using the door step. He stared in wonder as I transferred the sandbags from ankles to wrists and waved my arms around in an approximation of arm exercises. He then gave up and went to inspect the garden rather than put me through the embarrassment of having a spectator observe any more of my antics.
A week or so later, I decided to push myself a little further and pulled a small stool into the middle of the lounge. Right in the middle, so I couldn’t cheat and hold on to a wall. Lucifer, relaxing on the sofa, stretched and yawned in my direction (cat speak I think, for ‘I sense some entertainment coming, you have a small portion of my attention for now.’) Sandbags strapped in place I launched myself, in a rather wobbly fashion, onto the stool. Lucifer sat up in horror.
I managed a couple of step ups before something odd happened. Balanced precariously on the stool I found I could not move my ankles. Joining Lucifer’s gaze at my feet, the problem dawned on us at the same time; the straps had slipped and I had successfully Velcro-ed my ankles together. We simultaneously took a deep breath. Mine to attempt to dull the panic, Lucifer’s, I assume to demonstrate his incredulity.
‘Any chance of a hand here?’ I asked, from my self inflicted pedestal. No response seemed forthcoming other than a shift in his position on the sofa. ‘I’ll take that as a no then.’ I tried to slowly, slowly peel my ankles apart. He was absolutely no help in saving me from my predicament and was far from the supportive male presence I wished for at that moment. Still, there is an upside, had he been the ‘supportive male’ I wanted, he probably would have whipped out the camera and demonstrated my stupidity to all my friends at the earliest opportunity.
To save myself being stranded on a stool again perhaps I’ll give the current un-fatness plan a bit more of a chance. After all, what can possibly go wrong…? :o)