Going home too soon
So, we’re supposed to be going home in the next few days. You know what that means — the weigh in. I am most definitely not looking forward to it.
While I’ve been pretty good at holding down the carbs because of the damnable diabetes, the calorie-counting has been going … well … hey, I’ve spent a lot of time tired, and hanging around skeezy motel rooms, and I’ve been bored, and, and, and … I can’t think of any more excuses. Crap. I suck.
Every day I give myself a good talking-to, swearing I will once again scrupulously count all the perfidious calories I consume, and I will, I say I WILL keep that count below 1500. And every day, I stop counting after lunch. This is not to say that I’ve been going on some mad 3,000 calorie a day spree. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll focus on the positive. At least I didn’t eat 5,265 calories today. Hoorah for me!
This is what the real shits is about dieting. When you’re following all the rules and losing weight, you’re a genius, you walk around thinking that this time you’re really going to do it, you are a freak of self-control so wondrous you could join the X-men (name: Dietronica).
When you are not following all the rules and feel pretty sure that stepping on the scale won’t be the power boost Dietronica needs to survive, everything goes in the crapper.
Well, I’ll know soon enough what I have wrought over the past five weeks. I don’t remember the last time I dreaded going home. In fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever dreaded going home.
Damn, I hate getting my comeuppance!