It seems my bid to conquer the world by inventing a new must-try diet has crashed and burned. The mince pie diet, despite being packed with tasty treats, festive fun and even a side of debauchery, didn’t seem to tick the boxes the diet industry was looking for. Herumph.
I thought it had a chance. Maybe if it had been more like the Scarsdale Diet (which I tried when I was 16) – 2 weeks of privation and starvation punctuated by grapefruits, from memory. (There is some form of fruit in mince pie mince, so surely there is some health virtue contained beneath the pastry crust!)
The problem I encountered was that it lasted more than 2 weeks. Which I blame on Covid. Which I blame on the SA borders opening. And also my son snogging a girl in a nightclub. This might sound like I’m casting round for someone to blame. That’s because I am.
Cam got Covid as his early Christmas gift, (I guess I should be relieved – there are worse things he could have caught swapping body fluids with another teenager) and we got locked down with him. And then he gave it to Soph as a Boxing Day special offer, which meant I was locked down again. With a house full of mince pies. And brandy cream. And lots of wine. YUM!
Over 3 weeks of lockdown and inactivity. Eating and drinking like every day was Christmas became a teeny bit of a habit. (I told you I was good at building bad habits).
And slightly disastrous for the waistline.
I am adept at dodging a mirror (which may explain my interesting hairstyles on any given day), so had ignored any information available from reflecting on my reflection. And my brain is brilliant at deducting that any number it doesn’t like on a set of weighing scales is just a blip. Even if the blip is repeated persistently over a series of weeks.
Trend? What good is a trend to someone who is a dedicated non-follower of fashion?
There is a reason I stopped working in Finance.
I live my life in lycra (more fetchingly termed activewear, I know), which is a joy for someone determined not to notice changes of an expanding kind.
So the cancer malarky has exposed more than just my boob. Which quite frankly was more than I really wanted to put on show. However, hospital gowns have an unfortunate way of exposing not just boob, but everything from the waist up, which involves the generous extra layers of flesh that have morphed from morsels of deliciousness.
The tiny dragon was always very quiet and maintained a very low profile. If I had to have surgery, I would have much rather chosen a tummy tuck and a bit of liposuction. After all, my boob only started hurting after they began poking about under my armpit with their biopsies and popping out lymph nodes like they were pomegranate pips. I was absolutely unaware there was anything lethal lurking.
But what have boobs got to do with mince pies? Where am I going with this?
Well, my friend, despite all the literature and information that is thrust at you when you join the cancer club, the one thing that no-one really mentions is that you automatically get life membership. Because whilst cancer isn’t infectious, it seems to have a nasty habit of reinfecting parts of your body, given half a chance.
There was me thinking that once they’d dug the dragon out, I was pretty much done and dusted. Radiation for a belt and braces approach. Embrace drug-induced menopause. But then I’ll be dispatched to life as normal. Right?
Wrong.
Breast cancer is like a pickled onion. It keeps repeating on you.
So my best hope of dodging the waft of a cancerous burp is to lose the excess weight. And start running again.
According to an article on the Garmin app, a study was carried out of around 1000 post-cancer peeps who took up regular exercise. Approximately 750 took up walking and the other 250 ran. And the running group had a lower recurrence of cancer. Look, I know that was just one study, but the results were such that it has piqued interest and hopefully there will be more research.
So I have joined WeightWatchers, which I’m liking so far. (I am always a fan girl of anything new until I’m not). I like rewards, and I get bonus points for eating veggies. And drinking water. And doing exercise. Which I can use to spend on the odd mince pie, if I must. (I might wait for the festive season to be upon us).
And we all know I like playing out.
So the god send has been an exercise studio in town called The Nourish Nook.
When you get diagnosed with cancer 3 weeks after moving to somewhere where you know no-one (apart from the hubstacle, that is), it is amazing to be able to zen out in yin yoga classes, occupy your busy brain with pullies and springs on the reformer bed and today, officially 6 weeks post surgery, I braved a MetCon class. Cancer hasn’t killed me, but I wasn’t sure if HIIT would take me out. In case you were wondering, I survived.
And I am slowly finding my new tribe. Not a cancer crew. I’m just not convinced that’s what I want right now. But a bunch of fitness pals. Because I might identify as a “social” rather than an “athlete”, but I like being around positive people. The ones focused on living rather than just surviving.