In a weekend of 3 meals out and 3 beyond my control, I’ve done pretty bloody well. I had a very little extra wine than I would normally allow myself but made good choices and resisted pudding (not easy for me). I had slightly under a quarter of a roast potato and half a Yorkshire pudding but my only significant carby sin was a piece of my mum’s blueberry and lime drizzle cake. I had asked her not to make a pudding, but she thought it would be better than having one at the restaurant. Actually I would have found pretty much anything easier to resist than homemade cake. As I proved. I had a modest piece and have felt wracked with anxiety ever since as to the impact on the SoD tomorrow. I’m not feeling terribly hopeful – after all, it doesn’t measure all the things I would have liked to have had but didn’t, only what I did. And since I don’t lose weight when I follow the plan faithfully, any minor deviation is unlikely to do anything other than pack on the lbs.
I’ve just been reading severe warnings on the Harcombe site that you shouldn’t drink at ALL (or eat dark chocolate which I do almost every night) until you’ve reached your desired weight. HOW is that possible? I’ve been dieting most of my adult life – how can I do that without a weekly glass of wine or two or a regular couple of squares of dark chocolate? Wretched.
On Friday evening we skulked outside a firedoor outside a room in an hotel where the ceilidh band we were interested in for our wedding was playing (another wedding). I suspect we looked like bouncers but we got to hear them play two and a half dances and they sounded pretty good – heaven knows what they look like but that’s not important really. The hotel was also very nice and resisting their restaurant menu deliciousness was hard. I ignored pudding, passed over my bread and potatoes to P and was frugal with the wine (which I chose and which was delicious).
We took my mother out to dinner and P’s parents out to lunch as their Mothers’ Day treat; the former to a fish place and the latter to a pub. It was all very lovely but added up to a very packed and social weekend – we left our flat on Friday morning and didn’t get back until Sunday evening.
I also had a complete wobble about clothes. We had been told to dress smartly on Friday night to ‘blend in’. By the time I got to work on Friday morning I hated what I was wearing. I shot off to a (pretty poor) House of Fraser at lunchtime in a desperate attempt to find something, anything, that looked better. Reader, I failed. I tried on several things but they were also awful. Common denominator? Yes, me. Bodes well for trying expensive white dresses on in 43 days time. And counting...