I apologise for neglecting this blog. I blame the fitness tracker! Now that it records everything that I do (when I am wearing it, that is, and when I’ve remembered to charge it), I don’t feel the need to do it myself anymore. (Again, if any of you are using Garmin, let’s connect! I’m on as TangerineChick.)

But, to bring you up to speed, I’ve been spending more and more time in Manila than Siargao lately. My folks are getting old, and I want to spend as much time with them as possible. My dad, in particular, isn’t well and, while my mom is still as strong as an ox, she has her own health issues too. So I figured now would be a good time to stop being a selfish twat and start giving back.

The long and short of it is that I’ve been spending so much time at hospitals, that I finally enrolled at my dad’s hospital gym last Thursday. I know I should have done it as soon I arrived at the beginning of the month, but I kept waffling about staying in Manila or going back to Siargao before Nicolas and I leave for Europe in May. Last week, I finally decided on staying, so I finally hired a personal trainer at the gym.

I thought that I hated gyms but I found out, while at the Picasso (where Nicolas and I stay when he is in town), is that I can work out just fine in them, as long as they are empty. Har. Turns out that I am intimidated by the grunting masses.

Since, unfortunately, most gyms are never empty, I need a personal trainer as an expensive security blanket.

Also, I’m really lazy and can’t be bothered to do anything if I have to think about it. That’s why I prefer classes. The gym may be the only place in the world where I’m okay with being told what to do.

True story. Nicolas: Where are you going? Me: Downstairs, to make you breakfast. Nicolas: Oh, what are you going to make? Could you…? Me: Do I look like I take requests?

I will have a total 11 sessions with Carlo, the trainer, if I work out every day on the days that he is at the gym (Monday to Friday, except for last Friday and holidays) before I leave for Cebu on May 15. (Nicolas and I are flying from Cebu to Paris on the 18th.) I prefer working out early in the morning on an empty stomach so I’ve set our sessions for 6:30 AM. Yeah, I don’t sleep anyway.

I told Carlo to push me to the limit and not give me sissy-assed workouts. Now I think he is trying to kill me. He makes me jump and run around a lot. I do not like jumping or running around at all.

Not only does Carlo make me do jumps, he also makes me do squats – a lot of them – which I also hate. To make me want to die further, he makes me do – dagnabbit – squat jumps. Grrr.

When I told him to push me, I meant with the weight training! Geezoos. So far, he hasn’t made me lift anything heavier than eight kilos.

Bear in mind, that all I do in Siargao is swim because, while it bores the Beejeezus out of me, it doesn’t involve any thinking. I just get in the water and keep going until I’ve counted 70 lengths. (Multiplied by 16 meters = 1,120 meters.) I suppose I could put on a workout video, but I’m too lazy to even set that up or figure out which video I want to do. Plus did I mention that I really hate jumping around?

Before this, my only workout in Manila was going up and down the stairs at the hospital. I take my dad to physical therapy every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, which is on the 15th floor of the hospital. I, obviously, have to take the elevator up with him. Once there, I wait to find out if his blood pressure is good enough for him to proceed with the PT. If it is, I then take the stairs down to the cashier to settle the bill, and then take the stairs up again to wait for him to finish. (If his blood pressure is too low, then he rests and we wait for it to normalise before I can take him home.)

I used to be able to make it up the stairs in 3.something minutes. Now it takes me four or five, with a lot of huffing and puffing involved. Well, also because, sometimes, I am on the phone or have a coffee with me… But, truly, my cardio is skewed.

The gym is right across dad’s PT, so I fully intend to work out again in the afternoons, when my dad has his PT. (Unfortunately, he didn’t have a session last Friday and, today, he has a doctor’s appointment.)

On the food front, the no-sugar thing went out the window when Nicolas and I traveled to Japan, Thailand, and Laos early on this year.

Here’s a fun fact: sushi rice is chock-full of sugar. I DIDN’T KNOW THAT. It’s apparently what keeps the rice sticky. Geezoos. For those of you who didn’t know that, I’m sorry, but misery does love company. As a matter of fact, all Asian food is sugar laden. What the hell is up with that?

Including, guess what! This one Keto Diet delivery service that shall go unnamed.

So I gained a truckload of weight from all that traveling and, in desperation, sought out one of those diet delivery services. A friend of mine used one and lost a ton of weight, and it had worked for me before ,so I signed up for two weeks. When they asked if I had any food allergies, I told them that I am lactose intolerant and that I didn’t want any sugar in my food. They came back to me asking if coconut sugar was okay, and some other sugar substitute that I forget. I was aghast. I told them the I absolutely did not want any sugar or any sugar substitute in my food. What the hell is a diet company putting sugar in its food for anyway??? For the taste, they said. Good grief. They sent me a message later saying that the chef considered my request and would comply, but that I would have to pay an extra P700 because my food would have to be cooked separately. Right-ho.

So be warned. If you use any of these diet delivery services, ask about sugar in the food.

Of course I lost weight. Any restriction in one’s diet and reduction in portion will result in weight loss.

And then I went to Bangkok because Rosan and Alan were there, and all was lost.

But, since the beginning of March, Stephen and I made a pact (non-binding, of course) to eliminate rice from our diets. Since then, I’ve cheated about a handful of times, which is pretty good for me. Except that I’ve continued to eat everything else, including sugar.

Just so that I don’t feel too deprived. I have been trying to be reasonable though and have not been eating until I hate myself. (Except for last Friday, during board game night, when I must have been eating non-stop for a solid three hours. Groan.) For instance, last night, instead of consuming the chicharron-encrusted pork chop AND the chicken kiev at Pappy, I only had five out of six gyozas. Could I finally be growing up? I hope to god not.

So I am pleased to announce that I am now at my target weight. Which, if you’ve been paying attention, was my former fat weight. Ugh. This getting older business sucks balls. So now am attempting to rein it in further to get to my previous target weight, as I’m sure to unravel in a big way when I get to France. Nicolas’ mom is a fantastic cook. (So is my mom actually, which is why I bid my parents goodnight and head home before dinner so that I am not tempted to join them.)