Guess I'll just talk about my favorite topic: me. And my ass. It's a pretty decent ass.
However, it has not shrunk much since I got back from Spain. Down, up, down, up, boy drama, social events, depression, ladeeda. I'm still right around a 50 pound loss, my original goal before I lowered it. So that's good. And I will say that despite the fact that the number has not gone down, I'm pretty sure I'm smaller. All that yoga, building muscle, paying off. My shoulders are looking mighty sexy.
And really, I can't complain even a little that the scale hasn't moved in the right direction. Though my exercising has gotten better, my eating has gotten worse, and most weeks since my trip I have ended up "in the red", IE I eat more than my allotted number of Weight Watchers points. No one to blame but myself.
This week, I swore I'd get right back on track after Vegas. Not so much. Wednesday was bad, yesterday was perfect, today is shit. My self-control is just faltering lately. Despite the logical way I can assess my negative feelings and determine that no amount of Cheetos will make me feel better, despite my mantras, despite my support system, I still end up saying "fuck it all" and indulging anyway.
Three bags of orange grossness. And chocolate. Ugh.
"It's just one day. It doesn't really matter. I can get back on track tomorrow."
But what if I don't get back on track tomorrow? One day turns into two, four. A week. And before you know it I'm right back where I started.
But I won't let that happen. I won't.
I need to learn better coping tactics to deal with my rampant girly hormonal problems. I need a hobby. I need someone to follow me around like Oprah does and lock my fridge at night. I need a boyfriend. I need a lobotomy. Maybe I need a therapist.
Hmph.
After this weekend, I have a stretch of time in LA to myself, no forseeable distractions or obstacles. I will recommit, rediscover the magical motivation I had for so many months. I'll get back on track.
And I will stop bitching.
This week, I swore I'd get right back on track after Vegas. Not so much. Wednesday was bad, yesterday was perfect, today is shit. My self-control is just faltering lately. Despite the logical way I can assess my negative feelings and determine that no amount of Cheetos will make me feel better, despite my mantras, despite my support system, I still end up saying "fuck it all" and indulging anyway.
Three bags of orange grossness. And chocolate. Ugh.
"It's just one day. It doesn't really matter. I can get back on track tomorrow."
But what if I don't get back on track tomorrow? One day turns into two, four. A week. And before you know it I'm right back where I started.
But I won't let that happen. I won't.
I need to learn better coping tactics to deal with my rampant girly hormonal problems. I need a hobby. I need someone to follow me around like Oprah does and lock my fridge at night. I need a boyfriend. I need a lobotomy. Maybe I need a therapist.
Hmph.
After this weekend, I have a stretch of time in LA to myself, no forseeable distractions or obstacles. I will recommit, rediscover the magical motivation I had for so many months. I'll get back on track.
And I will stop bitching.
No comments:
Post a Comment