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.
And then.
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 fiancĂ©e 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.