Or, maybe in a less caveman-esque statement, you can tell yourself that the food you eat on your birthday has no calories, but that doesn’t mean the scale will agree with you afterward.
I gained .2 lbs. last week, leaving me still under 180 lbs. but barely. I’m 179.8, which is basically a grande latte away from 180. So. ARG.
Making matters worse is my brain. My brain is giving up. My brain has decided that less than ten pounds away from goal weight is the same as being my goal weight. My brain is telling me I’m starving all the freaking time, and my brain is a dirty, dirty liar.
For 17 weeks I’ve had the self-restraint of a frigging monk, and now it’s like my brain’s at a Mardi Gras celebration. I keep telling my brain, “Put your shirt down and step away from the scones,” and my brain slurs back to me, “Shhhh.Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing.”
But who has to clean up the mess the next morning? Me. Who schleps out of bed to hit the gym? Me. You always hurt the ones you love. I’ve stretched this metaphor too far.
Thankfully, I still have my calorie counter. My militant calorie counter, which turns red and angry when I go over my calories for the day. Because I’m such a people-pleaser by nature, I can’t not record every single thing I eat (that would be lying!) so I’m still on the wagon.
But I don’t want to be. Never have I wanted to bury my face in a bowl of M&M’s. I can just imagine the smooth, cool feel of the M&M’s against my face, the rush of sugar when I crack their crunchy little shells.
Instead, I’ll sip my coffee, eat a reasonable tuna sandwich for lunch, and think about my author shoot this weekend. Think about how pretty JK Rowling looks in her author photos.
I bet she doesn’t bury her face in M&M’s.
Anyway, if you’re interested in my thoughts on staying on the wagon, head on over to my post on the Fitness Together Sammamish blog. I make a little more sense over there.