It’s Monday again. That means two things: a) all the guys I work with crowd the break room watching Monday Night Football so I have no where to eat lunch in peace and b) I meet the scale.
Since my initial weigh in at the doctor’s office at the end of June I have lost 15lbs. When I say it like that it sounds like I’ve accomplished something. It seems like I should feel better about it than I do. But I don’t feel like I’ve lost 15lbs. I’m still not comfortable in my own skin and my pants still don’t fit. So until I can wear the clothes that are hanging in my closet and until I feel like a person and not a blob, 15 is just a number that doesn’t mean anything.
So I’ll keep doing the 30 day shred even though the sound of Jillian’s voice makes me shudder. I’ll keep dieting even though I really, really want all that Halloween candy at Target. I’ll keep on keeping on because I have 21 more pounds to lose. That’s so much. But 21 is just a number and it doesn’t mean anything, right?
After the scale and I had our date I had a breakfast date with The Captain. He made me blueberry pancakes (my favorite) from scratch. The kitchen was a war zone of flour, egg shells, and batter splattered everywhere. He got up early and tried so hard I couldn’t say “I’ll just eat half of the small one, no syrup please.” He knew I was trying to figure out how many calories were in each bite and said “I won’t tell you how much butter is in there.”
Thank you, honey. Breakfast was wonderful but now I can’t eat for a week.
Mmm. Pancakes.
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