It’s been a long time since I had the stomach flu, so maybe my memories are too hazy to be of much value, but I don’t think I remember the Bottomless Pit of Recovery phenomenon.
Do you know what I’m talking about? How, after a week of feeling like complete, unmitigated crap, you feel better and suddenly the world is an all-you-can-eat buffet and you’re slavering over rolls, and candies, and MOAR MEAT RAR.
My goodness, but I’m having a difficult time sticking to my newly forged healthy eating habits! I just want to celebrate life. With French toast. And peanut butter cups.
Lunches that would normally fill me up have me hungry again in an hour. It’s like the second trimester of pregnancy all over again, only this time there’s no ravenous fetus to blame. Just a newfound appetite and zest for life.
Regardless, I still must stick to my goals. This is not the time to get sloppy. I’m fifteen pounds away from my goal weight (a goal weight which I can’t actually ever remember being, though I’m sure I was once. I mean, it’s not like I skipped 170 lbs on my way to 217, is it?). Fifteen. Well, technically 14.4 pounds. But still. So close!
So even though I have my energy back and I rocked my workout at the gym yesterday morning and I feel like I could bench press school buses with my mind powers, I shall be reasonable. Stay on track. Not shovel tortilla chips into my mouth on Cinco do Mayo even though they go so perfectly with the too many margaritas I’m going to drink after Aidan goes to bed.
Now is not the time for foolishness. Now is the time for perseverence.
After I lose the weight, though? FOOLISHNESS. You can bet your sweet bippy that Wes is taking me out for some French freaking toast after I hit my goal weight.