I AM trying to convince myself ...

... that I have a bad back. More than that, pains down the left side of my leg too. Just for added conviction, you understand. Or is that self delusion? Delete as necessary.

I think I do really have twinges and I am feeling a bit stiff. But, let’s be honest here, there’s nothing much wrong with me, save a bad case of ennui.

I am in what’s commonly known to failed dieters everywhere as The Slump.

This is that awful, dark hole you find yourself trying to crawl out of when things aren’t moving fast enough for you.
It’s a basic lack of interest in yourself and the task at hand – in this case, working towards feeling better and getting fitter.

For the past few months I’ve been exercising and trying to cut down my portion sizes. Things have been going brilliantly well with my personal trainer and there aren’t words beautiful, glorious and diamond-encrusted enough to explain how magical I feel after a session with my power dresser.

We stretch, we chat, we bend, we move, we both stand in amazement and whoop a bit after I run. Yes, seriously, I run. Not outdoors, as that simply wouldn’t do, but on the dreadmill (sic).

I’m now up to 12 minute miles and can run for precisely 12 minutes 27 seconds at a time without stopping for a KitKat (anyone who’s fat and taken up exercise will tell you that every second counts when you’re measuring success).
I love the sense of achievement it has brought me, and nothing equals it – not the book deal, the TV documentary, having the best haircut going. Nothing.

And that’s because it’s way out of my comfort zone, a place where lesser mortals fear to tread.

But me being me, I can only pick holes in it. I fail to celebrate what IS and start to berate myself about what should be. It’s the cerebral fat running through the middle of me.

And so the psycho babble begins. I tell myself that two hours a week with the trainer isn’t enough. Then I move on to my eating habits, my lack of appropriate workout gear, how I should be running 13 minutes by now. I pick myself apart because I feel I don’t quite measure up.

Now don’t get me wrong – I don’t do this all the time. For the past few months I’ve coasted along nicely, buoyed with a nice sideline in healthy perspective (and seeing a bit of weight falling off my face).

But when that veneer starts to slip (read: when my trousers fail to feel slacker and I assuage the disappointment with industrial sized ham rolls), I lose sight of the big picture and all I can concentrate on is the word BIG.

So here I am, bang in the middle of The Slump. A crazy, odd place which renders me disinterested. From there rises the beast of burden that is disappointment and instead of working it out in a ball of sweat and simply feeling better about everything afterwards, I’m going to go home and do what I shouldn’t do – process it all with a processed meal.

I’ll go home and literally stare at the wall on Facebook and imagine my back’s really hurting and those pains down my leg are getting a bit more pronounced.

And I’ll pick myself up eventually and will be back on track by next Monday, hoping to start running to stop myself standing still yet again.