Ah well. I guess I knew it was coming but that doesn’t mean that I hadn’t had the odd flicker of hope – ruthlessly suppressed of course – that I might have a small loss this week (just ½ lb, just ½ lb to take me to a stone pleeeeeeeeeeeease).
But it was not to be. I put on 1 ½ lbs. That’s what booze, lasagne and tiramisu does, dear Reader. In a way, it serves me right. In another, it’s not like I went crazy and joyously careered off-piste and headfirst, jaws open, into a vat of calorific yumminess. I can’t pretend it doesn’t sting a bit.
But now what I have to do is get over it and keep a very tight grip. I accept it’s contrary, but a loss motivates me to keep going, a gain makes me want to give up and self-soothe with chocolate. So this gain has to be a blip. Next week I want to have one of my super-losses (yep 2lbs+) to take me to that stone loss (and ideally beyond but shush, don’t risk the wrath of the diet god by tempting fate) and so have to knuckle down, buckle up, plough on - and every other related idiom - and keep my eye on the prize (I am all about the idiom).
The perilous route to next WI:
I think I dodged going out on Friday night (sad that dieting requires this sort of thing really) but we have Sunday lunch out with the MIL and stepson. No booze for that so I am anticipating a gold star on that front. And I ought to be able to manage food choices too – as well as compensate elsewhere over the week. I’m seeing a friend on Monday and that’s an unknown quantity currently. I’m trying to persuade her to go and see a film rather than out for supper but it may not work. Either way, it looks less foody, less boozy and a tad less unpredictable so I’m hoping that will do the trick.
May the odds be forever in your favour. (And, erm, mine. Obviously (if selfishly))