I haven’t been writing much lately because I pretty much suck.
I’m drowning in a sea of a family parties, carb-loaded salads coated in mayonnaise, spinach dip, and booze. It’s summer and at the Jersey Shore, people eat and drink like the next summer will never come. I’m barely keeping my head above water, the scale mocking me. Up two pounds one day, down three pounds the next, up four one week, down six. I’m irritated with myself.
I know how to maintain. It’s apparent. I did it before and I’m doing it again, only I’m doing it this time at a weight about 30 pounds higher than I want to be. I know just how much I can indulge and just how much I have to work out in order to keep that scale within the same four-pound range. It’s not hard for me to maintain.
I’ve been complaining about a plateau, but the truth is, I’m not really trying hard enough. I desperately try and convince myself that it’s summer and that NOT GAINING is success, but really, that is a giant steaming load of crap. I do want to lose. I don’t want to be this weight for the rest of the summer. I have clothes in drawers I had unpacked for the summer than I had planned to fit into months ago.
And in my drawer they still sit.
I want to enjoy my summer and not deprive myself but I also want to feel happier in my own skin. Along with taking care of my body and feeling healthy and strong – which I do – I want to lose more weight. And if I pretended like maintaining was okay, my pants would be on fire.
Four years ago I had a lot of success on Weight Watchers. And not because it taught me how to eat, but because someone – albeit a stranger – had to weigh me in every week. I had to face the SAME scale, the SAME woman, and that number would either betray me or reward my hard work. Don’t get me wrong, I think WW is a great program but I already knew how to eat and the counting damn near drove me to mania. But what did it for me was hold me accountable to myself.
Currently, the only person that sees the number on the scale every morning is me. I don’t hide my weight from anyone, and have readily told you all. I am not embarassed nor defined by the number that I see every morning. I am not ashamed.
But I still want the effer to move. And NOT up.
So, I’m going to use all of you as my Weight Watcher Lady Behind the Counter. Once a week, I’m going to get on the scale, snap a photo, and post it here in one of my posts. I figure maybe coming clean every week to the Entire Internet World is the extra little push I need.
Maybe I’ll think twice about putting the leftover toddler-gnawed-on PB&J in my mouth knowing you’ll see that number.
Maybe I’ll run an extra mile or take an extra class.
Maybe I’ll up the weights on my weight training or do more reps.
Maybe I’ll fit into those white capris by my wedding anniversary in September.
(Sidenote: If anyone is interested in doing this with me (I know a lot of people are very sensitive about their weight and don’t tell anyone which I understand and respect) I could start a Flickr group. )
Start: (Ugh, stupid chinese food over the weekend). At least I have pretty toes from my weekend pedicure. (Also: Awesome pajama shorts.)