Stel XL

Every so often a man has to sit up and take stock. I had such a moment on Sunday morning when I came into contact, for the first time in a month, with a set of scales. Staring up at me was my actual weight.
For weeks the Girlf has been mocking my belly and calling me fatty. To be exact she’s been calling me her fatty and I suppose the added affection dilutes the word a bit but all the same it stings when she says it.
I’m aware I’ve put on some weight. It’s almost impossible not to in this house as there is food everywhere. My massive man appetite is tempted from every cupboard and corner with all the crisps and chocolates and croissants and hams and dips and crusty breads and spreads.
Even so I think I’ve done well keeping my midnight munching to a minimum. With my strange working and sleeping hours I do get hungry at all the wrong times and with so much temptation personally I think I’ve done well not to go totally overboard.
When I was weighing myself regularly I was generally knocking around the eighty kilo mark. That’s twelve and a half stone in English. Certainly that was way above my fighting weight of seventy k when I was kickboxing but then there was an immense amount of cardio going on and my cupboards were bare at the flat. Food had to be planned and flown in.
Clearly eleven stone was a little light for my frame but the combination of retirement and the Ex soon put an end to that.
Now, being in a relationship with a woman that’s heavier than you will encourage you put on the pounds. The Ex wasn’t apposed to cooking a pasta bake at two in the morning and ever so slowly but ever so surely I crept up from eleven stone to a whopping thirteen over the course of a year.
Eventually I was forced to take action and quite quickly got myself down to a svelte twelve by the time we split up. At the time friends did tell me I was starting to turn into a porker but were too embarrassed to mention it. Also they assumed I’d gotten into one of those mutually dependent, enabling relationships and it was centred on food. It was none their business and assumed we were both happy with it.
Now I’ve been away from the scales since the beginning of this year and my assumption was I was still knocking around the twelve and a half to thirteen stone mark that was at the last time I weighed myself. However staring up at me from the scales on Sunday morning was an incredible thirteen and a half stone!

I’m a fucking cruiser weight!

I’ve never weighed thirteen and a half stone in my entire life.

I am actually a fatty.

I’m Stel XL.

Now before I run screaming through the streets of Weston let’s pull up the reigns on that statement. I’m NOT fat. I’m carrying a bit of extra timber on my gut but my moobs have been with me since childhood. I went down to nine stone as a Raver in the nineties and still kept my man tits.
I’ve gotten chubbier since I’ve been with the Girlf but not considerably. What I have been doing is attacking the weights daily since the beginning of the year and strongly suspect the majority of this mass is muscle. I’m turning into a big lad but my concern is to not turn into the wrong type of big lad.
Having your woman call you fatty in a cutesy kind of way is one thing but everyone else thinking it is a completely different matter. Stock has to be taken and I’m going to have to get my arse on the treadmill a couple of times a week and increase my cardio.
Certainly I’ve got to leave the crisps alone and go to bed hungry.
The Girlf is certainly a bad influence. This house is rammed with food and her penchant for cheese, chips and gravy has grown on me. In fact the quantity of CC and G I was bringing into the house was starting to concern the Eldest. She took me aside for a quiet chat and as far she was concerned I could still bring it home for her but I was under no circumstances to give it to her mother. For her own good you understand.
Now if my baby asks me to bring her back chips, cheese and gravy after work, how can I possible refuse her? With hindsight I suppose waking her up and giving her a plate of it in bed was excessive. Getting up for ten minute to put away a portion of chips isn’t the healthiest past time and now it seems me showing my solidarity by caning a load myself hasn’t done me much good.
The time has come to get to grips with myself. I have to work off this chub but still keep the muscle and strength. I think a few weeks of healthy living are needed. I have to start eating breakfast and no more midnight munches.

The moobs are with me for life. There’s nothing I can do about them, although there is always the option of surgery.