It is hard to hang on. An 18-day plateau where the scale won’t budge easily generates a serious case of “why bother?” I found a great deal on a beautiful pair of black linen trousers last week, size 12. I bought them. Now I think I should have saved my money. I was within four-tenths of a pound of my 20-pound weight loss prize, and it slipped between my fingers with the inexplicable gain of 2.6 pounds.
I’ve added calories, I’ve added fiber, I’ve reduced fat. I haven’t deprived myself, but I’ve been sensible. I’ve changed foods, I’ve tried tracking, I’ve walked more, I’ve even broken into a run on several occasions. I’ve mixed up the work-out, I always hit the target heart rate and sustain that. I break a sweat. And still, everyday, the scale sings back to me the same stupid three numbers.
It’s windy and cold out, I don’t want to walk. It’s dull to walk on the treadmill and even the novelty of bopping along to the soundtrack of my life has long lost its luster. We talked about putting a video monitor in front of the treadmill so I can watch movies and walk, but honestly, it seems I make a charitable contribution to Netflix each month, I just don’t find movies that compelling anymore.
I am tired of eggs and sushi and green salad and lean steak. It’s not that I want something else necessarily or I’d eat it. The governess in me is not that strong. But I’m bored. This is boring. I knew it would be slow, but this is ridiculous. Maybe I’m just destined to be more the model of Queen Victoria than Victoria’s Secret.
Doubt has begun to creep in, and that makes keeping a balance very precarious.
Target number 63. Of course. Steps walked, so what. 2846. Consumed: Yogurt with granola and a banana. Very small grilled cheese sandwich and a cup of tomato soup. Another yogurt with granola. 2 chicken thighs, no skin. Green salad, a quarter-cup of pulled pork, no sauce. 1.5 ounces chocolate.