(Yes, I’m back. For now.)
So after a rather successful first week back into it… I lost 1.6kg.
Didn’t really do much except not eat ALL THE THINGS.
Not even any exercise. That’s a nice ease back into the new routine.
I was like, “Sh-t?! REALLY?! Not eating ALL THE THINGS works?”
“Yes,” said Scales, “Not eating ALL THE THINGS works.”
You knew there was a ‘but’ coming. Go on. Look at that ‘but’.
LOOK AT IT.
My out-laws arrived for a five-day stay.
And they believe in things like happy hour and entrees and nibbles and big dinners…
THEY ARE TINY PEOPLE! HOW ARE THEY SO TINY?!
So I ate.
I ate ALL THE THINGS.
And Scales snickered and asked in that low, smirky kind of way, “You ate ALL THE THINGS again, didn’t you?”
And I answered “Fuck off, Scales.”
But Scales was not done yet.
“Look at that,” Scales flashed with barely suppressed, unmitigated evil glee. “LOOK. You gained 3kg. IN FIVE DAYS.”
And, a little more quietly, guiltily, I said, “Fuck off, Scales.”
Actually, it was the Tuesday night (when we went out to a Greek restaurant in Williamstown and I would eat a MOUTAIN of well-cooked flesh) that I had hit a new low-high. My size 16s don’t fit anymore. My size 18s (the things I recently bought to be my interim “fat pants”) are wearable but way too tight.
I reached up into the top of the wardrobe and pulled down a pair of size 20s.
I never wanted to see that fucking number again, but there it was.
I put them on and they were snug but comfy and I cried with a mixture of regret, heartache and relief.
Regret that I had not had more self control this past 12 months when everything seemed to go pear-shaped health-wise, heartache because I never wanted to be at this place again and yet, here I was, and finally relief; because without pants I would have been going to dinner naked and ain’t nobody should have to deal with that.
So this weekend I took stock, ate a little more (and enjoyed it), weighed myself again, put in all the numbers and climbed back on that fat-arse horse.
Seriously, bugger the wagon. I can scare the horse into submission by threatening to eat it.
I mean beat it.
Nah, ‘eat’ sounds better.
I am tracking everything again too – my phone reminds me to make sure I track. I was actually really guilty that I didn’t track this weekend and I kept getting beeped by my phone saying, “Helloooooo.. have you tracked today? I know you haven’t tracked today otherwise you wouldn’t be getting this notification! Helloooooo! YOU NEVER CALL! I only spent SEVENTEEN days in labour trying to give birth to you! NOBODY LOVES ME!!*”
Yeup. That WW app does guilt like the Jewish mother I never had.
*True story. I was 17 days late. Shut up. I was comfy.