So I haven’t really been blogging, in part because so much has been going on and in part because I have nothing much to say. But this morning I weighted myself and had the usual pre-weight in battle in my head that goes something like this:
Whatever the number is I will be happy with myself. Then a number pops into my head (which is five lbs lower than the last time I weighted myself) and I know that in two weeks I will not have lost that much weight so I reject that number and I tell myself again that I will be happy with myself and my progress no matter what the number is. Then another number pops into my head (all this goes on in the five minute walk to the building which the fitness room and the dreaded scale) which is one pound higher than the last time I weighted myself. I also reject this number but I negotiate with myself about what I am willing to do if that number appears, start working out again, swim a little bit more, cut bread down to just toast in the morning (a desperate measure to be sure!). But I tell myself no matter what the number is I am not allowed to beat myself up about it.
So the number was three lbs less, so I ate a larger than usual breakfast to celebrate. I will for the rest of my life use food to celebrate and not give a fuck (yes I said fuck) what the diet gurus say about it. Cause food is life and life comes will plenty of reasons to celebrate and I refuse to give up celebrating life/food/fun.
The biggest reason I feel that way is because there are plenty of average (or in once case under average) weight volunteers who deny themselves food or make certain foods off limits. One won’t drink coffee, some won’t eat dairy, some won’t eat gluten, some won’t eat meat, one person won’t eat any of the above but I find her very inflexible and in conversations she always defines herself by what she can’t do. As if denying herself makes her somehow saintly (damn Catholics). In the immortal words of Joe Jackson “Don’t wanna be like that”
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