So anyways, I’ve mentioned before how my tenuous grip on reality can lead me quite simply to ignore the bleeding obvious.
This week it was the scales.
I’d fallen off the wagon. The wine had been poured and the fitbit was off. I’d enjoyed pasta, and home-made pizza and even, wait for it, indulged in a vegemite and plastic cheese sandwich on white bread- which isn’t really bread at all.
And I hadn’t set foot on the scales.
Given that I’m a numbers person, this just meant that even though I felt that there was the teeniest possibility that I’d put some weight back on, it couldn’t possibly have happened because I hadn’t stood on the scales.
It’s like when I know the numbers at work are going to be bad so I don’t update the white board. Because the white board isn’t updated, I don’t have to deal with the numbers being bad. Yep, just like that.
So on Tuesday, I took everything off, sucked everything in, exhaled every breath, and looked at the number.
Plus 1kg. In two weeks. Really?
On the good news front, I’m still 5 kgs lighter than I was 10 weeks ago, but that’s minimal comfort.
Birthdays mean eating- and drinking- so I’ve kept up the exercise throughout. I’ll be happy with the status quo this week. If this week was about getting my training back on track, the coming week is all about getting nutritionally into gear.
In other news, I did my first Body Pump class in well over a year. Man, those things hurt, but in an oh so good way. I’m not sure that I’ll be saying that tomorrow…or the next day.
8 weeks until Bali…and counting…
Until next time…