Day 7, I think

   Hello everyone, and by everyone I mean the family members I force to read this on a semi-regular basis. To those of you who have taken my threats seriously enough to show up once more, welcome.

   This is officially week one over of the Lipidsana shakes and the infernal gym. I have been mostly very excellent about eating correctly and drinking my shakes twice a day, and the only day I didn't go to the gym this week I walked like a trooper from home. And whenever I felt down, I- well, lemme explain to you:

  As a general rule, you understand.

   During the course of a short week, I have walked so much nowhere that I believe I'm eligible for some kind of a frequent buyer discount. I have had and lost two whole personal trainers who both looked like they could very potentially knock your tooth out by flexing a bicep. My wanton dreams of wire-fu have been demoted from Kill Bill-like badassery to Reservoir Dogs-style yammering. Ah, but I have watched an episode of Dexter's Labratory from the comfort of a treadmill, and let's be honest- who can really ask any more than that out of life?
   I have yet to do an official weigh-in at the gym to compare my stats with last week's, but I have been torturing a scale at home, and it has not yet betrayed any actual weight loss. In fact, I've actually gone up a jot. This, as you may well imagine, is somewhat frustrating. Several attempts were made to stop being frustrated and start being awesome instead, all of which fell short and sputtered a bit before giving way to images of cheesecakes passed up and slap chips not eaten. Luckily, my mind is of such iron substance that I have convinced myself that my jeans are slightly looser, and a very knowledgeable GP only needed mention the words "maybe water retention...?" and I was all over it like white on rice. So for the record books, perhaps no substantial kilogram loss as of yet, but there has been some (potentially psychosomatic) waist-management (ah ha ha, I kill myself, I really do.)
 
   In anecdotal news, I do have a small grievance I need to share. Not two days yore, on Wednesday last, some fiendishly fiendish fiend burgled my flappy-eared hat right out of my gym locker. I stashed my entire Treasury of Many Things in one of the provided lockers whilst averting my eyes from naked bums left and right, and when I came back all a-sweating and a-heaving, I found my hat to have been viscously kidnapped. Nothing else at all was taken or touched, which leads me to conclude either a very stupid thief, or a severe under-achiever. Perhaps one of the naked-bummed people opened the locker mistakenly, believing it to be theirs, and expressed brief puzzlement at finding their hat sitting on top of a pile of foreign things before walking off nakedly wearing a little black beanie. Perhaps I'll never know, but my ears felt decidedly naked that day as I trudged home with my Treasury of One Less Thing.

   Today's exercise block shall have to be Gym Lite, as I'm sniffling and coughing like a thing that sniffles and coughs a lot, and I hope not to aggravate the sleeping giant that is a possible full-blown flu right now. There's a good chance I may fall serenely asleep upon my laptop keyboard today, in which case I may be able to figure out how my cat changed my display settings to Russian when she walked across it this morning. I'll post an update of vitalstatistix later when I get back, but until then, thanks for reading dad, and let's not have mince tonight, OK? I'm feeling a porterhouse like a brick wall today. And some Med-Lemon.

Enjoy an official "Before" snap, on the house.

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Outplayed

   For all my desperate attempts to find witty and linguistically pleasing ways to whine about getting up at 4 AM, Stephen Fry politely smacks my sorry ass all up and down The Albert Hall in five words.

"I call this too early."

   Well played sir, well played.

Day 4: Video of the Day

   I'm back.

   Weekend over, back to the grindstone. Today the regime starts in earnest, as I believe I am to receive my diet today. I awoke once more at some ungodly hour at which no man has ever seen sober, and decided I needed some motivating. Before I had had so much as a morning vitamin C tablet, I cranked up the Tarantino Mix Tape with callow disregard for people who might still have been sleeping, and T-Rexed. I tell you now sir, there was bogeying. I was smooth, man, it was awesome. Then of course I realized I needed to get dressed, and my entire mood fell about 500 feet again.

   I give you: enthusiasm:

   This is calling out to be a motivational poster.

   I don't know if this is a thing that has been noted before, but DAMN it's cold at 4 AM in the winter. After I had mixed and swallowed my Lipidsana shake, I washed out the little shakey bottle thing so it wouldn't go yoghurt, and I DO BELIEVE I LOST A LITTLE FINGER INTO THE KITCHEN SINK. It's ok, I fished it back out again, a little Pritt and it's back on a treat, but that'll give you a start in the morning.
   I realized that my currently rad uniform of high-tops and tights is probably not what the experts would call optimal for a rigorous morning of walking nowhere, so I went hunting in my cupboard for a pair of tekkies I vaguely remembered from the mid-ninteties. The good news is, I found one.

If you direct your attention to the left, you'll notice there're actual Crocs in my home also.

    I don't know where the other one is, but I think it said something about the Mexican border and a Swedish nanny once, so I don't think I'll be seeing it again anytime soon. High-tops it is then. (High-tops it are? I'm confused.) 

   In order to cheer myself back up again, I'm sharing some videos. I figured the idea would be one at a time, but as I'm feeling a particular chill in interesting areas this morning, I'll call it a bonus. 

   Video Uno:

   I challenge you to tell me that is not awesome. Then, since this dude owns all the awesome:

  I encourage you to explore his uploads in full, because it physically hurt me to try to choose only two of his videos to share. I know how hard this is, I tried it a while ago sound alone (sans video) and it's truly a bitch.

   Alrighty, gymming done for the day. Personal trainer Ross Kemp was entirely MIA, and so I proceeded to entertain myself on a variety of machines. This is all exceptionally 21st century, really. When they did all my assessments on Friday it was all done on an all-in-one station that seemed to weigh me, give me my fat percentage, blood pressure and read my palm all in one go. Now, running furiously for my life, there's a little TV screen with a selection of DStv channels for my edification right there on the machine with a little earphone jack and everything. I was terribly disappointed to find that my most promising option for TV was Cartoon Network though- if you're going to promise me moving pictures whilst I sweat uproariously, the least you can do is give me some Gordon Ramsay to ease the pain. How young are these gym bunnies getting if two out of 8 channels provided are cartoons?

   So instead, I just went with the music on my phone. Here's my problem: the moment my excellent playlist started, I was once again hit with the irresistible urge to throw down my smooth moves right there in front of the salt-water swimming pool. Man, I wanted to dance like a madman.
   Since Ross Kemp has failed to tell me what to eat or on which stationary object to walk, I think I'm ditching him. I can sweat all on my own, and I'm sure that since it's still about 500 Bajillion % more exercise than I was getting before, it can go naught but well. I celebrated my rebellion with some of the gym's orange juice, which tasted like ass and made me very sorry not to have celebrated with cheese cake.

  I broke out no choreography in there, if you were wondering, I demurely bobbed my head and simply fantasized the kind of hurt I would drop on these unsuspecting members of the public if I had had even an ounce less shame. What a missed opportunity for a flash mob.

Day 1: Of Existential Bowels & Shocking Statistics

Hi.

   My name is Loraine, and I'm going to be a Before and After.

 Ta-da

   I'm a particularly good choice for a before. I've always been overweight- puberty hit, and with it did a whole lotta me. My cats consider me an awesomely comfortable place to sleep. I've been on about 1200 different diets, pills and powders*, and not a one has made a dent in sizable me.
   In come this stuff called Lipidsana. It's an omega 3 type shake that's meant to be the absolute shiznit, and although I'm the single most cynical person ever when it comes to miracle cures, they had me at "sponsored." I was to be put on a regime of the Lipidsana shakes and packed off to gym with a personal trainer and watched for imminent wait loss. Week to week, they'll measure my progress, and since I'm an attention-whore, I decided to keep a web log, or a "blog", if you will. Enjoy my sputterings.

*exaggeration 

   So, day 1. I had been summonsed to meet with the personal trainer at the unlikely hour of 8ish in the morning, and since ye oldde gymme is about an hour away, I've valiantly set my alarm for 6 AM. Of course, having put myself to bed at nine last night to make sure I can wake up in time, I'm now wide awake at four.
   I tell myself I need to get as much sleep as I can, so I try to lull myself with comforting thoughts of John Hannah, but I'm so distracted now he just ends up accompanying me to the gym and assuring me that no one shall ever be allowed to exact push-ups on me. He's a good guy.
   So eventually, when I can no longer force myself to pretend there isn't a cat parking pointedly on my ribs, I swing myself out of bed and decide to fix my first official shake. I believe some orange slices and tea may have happened also, but I'll only deny it if asked. I was expecting the shake to be rather fishy-tasting, what with being so chock-full of fishy oil goodness, but I'm pleasantly surprised. It's vanilla, and not half bad, although it does coat the mouth in a rather strong willed manner. It's not a lot, so it goes down in a couple of swigs, so now I'm free to pursue tea and tea-like endeavours whilst I wait for a proper hour to roll around.

 Not pictured: Cat helping.

   Now here's the first bit of unexpectedness. As it goes down, there's the sudden and unshakable knowledge that it is going down. It doesn't burn or anysuch, but you are immediately taken by the thought that your stomach has become somehow worrying sentient and self aware in the last few seconds. The shake is seemingly encouraging existential revolution in what is usually my happy place, which should be an unsettling thought for anyone hoping to force Tropica on it again at some future point in time. Mercifully, this passes rather swiftly, and leaves me to contemplate my fate at the hands of a personal trainer named Jannie.

I have been asked to come in sweatpants and tekkies. I discover I have neither. What I do have is a pair of tights and some high tops. This is fine for me, I shall simply have to be content with being the bitchingest gymmer what ever there was.

  I look like I'm smuggling sour dough.

   Foreshortening is a bitch, idn't it? I promise it looked much cooler in person. Less... stubby.

   Anyway, so I make my way up to the gymming area. There is a wealth of pretty people barely sweating on various pieces of foreign looking machinery. No, I do not know of this treadmill you speak of, what is its nature? I'm popped unceremoniously onto one of these "treadmills", which takes me aback slightly as I was steeling my nerves first for the ordeal of being weighed, measured and found wanting by a man who calls to mind Gaston from Beauty and the Beast.
   Ten minutes on a low setting (5, if that means anything to you), and I got off with that feeling like you're still being pulled forward by the spirits of the destination-less walk, but surprisingly un-murdered. I could, you know, breath and all those important things. Of course, I'm feeling massively impressed with myself for walking what I'm told amounted to 0.7 kms on a treadmill for a whole ten minutes. Then I'm directed to what I actually recognize as an eliptical machine thing. This one may have conquered me a little more, and I can neither confirm nor deny rumours that I awarded myself a break halfway through before finishing. All in all, I only wobbled slightly back down the stairs to retreat to a passionate round of air-drums after my first gym session, waiting for Gaston to come tell me I'm 87.2% fat.
   Bait and switch. Gaston has been supplemented by Bald Earringed man, whom I shall affectionately refer to from here on in as Ross Kemp. I am to be transferred to his care, which I'm perfectly passive about by now. Hot damn, I've done a whole twenty minutes of walking in high tops, I can not be stopped. On Monday, my eating plan and workout will be devised, and as Ross Kemp has casually informed me that he is a martial arts expert also, I intend to be mightily disappointed if I can't Kill Bill my way across a room by September.

   So, first day over. Stats measured (eventually), walk walked, and I've even managed some more tea since then. I'm fairly sure my future posts won't be so long winded, so perhaps someone other than my dad might actually come back.

   If I'm still un-murdered by then, that is.

VITALSTATISTIX

Weight Lost:                              0.0 kg

Blood Pressure:                         127/63

Amount of Fat on Person:          45.6%

Minutes Exercised:                    20