I lost a measly 1/2lb this week. I took a deep breath and reasoned it out: I had an excellent loss last week, it’s bound to happen sometimes, it’s still a loss which is better than a gain, it’s okay that I can’t work out why (as panic started slipping its tendrils throughout my brain). Reader, I was quite proud of myself for not being a drama queen and flinging myself about.
On Wednesday I had two big pieces of cake at our charity bake sale and some sweets. Yesterday I had a small plastic beaker of (indifferent) wine and a large handful of some sort of crisp things at book club. And whilst these are quite modest in the whole arena of binging, neither will do anything to ensure I see a better result on Scales of Doom (SoD) next week.
I wouldn’t say I made these choices in an attitude of despair – more that somehow my subconscious seemed to be making an effort to bring me down. Metaphorically. It’s surprising that for me, a poor result tends to erode what little willpower I have, whilst a good one bolsters it. Which doesn’t exactly explain this week’s result but still. It’s a vicious spiral that I really have to resist getting sucked into.
Before next week I have to navigate drinks out with a friend too. It consistently saddens me that any social occasion is fraught with dieting anxiety which spoils the pleasure that there ought to be in it. We have P’s nephew and fiancée over for supper the following week and whilst that’s in a whole different dieting week, it’s already making me anxious. I’ve said I’ll make a meatball lasagne which defies both the rules around diabetes (containing as it does, pasta) and SW due to excessive cheesiness. Ditto the tiramisu I’m making for pudding. My only contingency plan is for small portions (for me) and stringent under synning (*cringe*) throughout the rest of the week.