So I’ve been trudging along with my weight loss, which is, quite frankly, going slower than I’d like. I think I can chalk that up to a couple of reasons. I’m older than I was last time around—even a few years might make a difference. I’m also not weight training like I was the first time around—something I hope to amend that soon.
But last week, it’s no surprise why loss didn’t happen.
I ate all the things.
I had friends come into town this weekend. The first thing we did was grab breakfast after I picked them up from the airport. I did great! Omelet. Small side of grits. I was off to a fantastic start.
But it started declining quickly. We went to the World of Coke. I let myself try a few of the Cokes in the tasting room (um, despite giving up soda for Lent), and I swear, I haven’t had that much sugar in a month or so. I felt gross.
And then it kept going. Dinner—let’s get an appetizer AND dessert (this was me saying this, by the way). And the next day—same thing.
Here’s a little something I’ve learned about indulgence along the way. It’s perfectly OK sometimes. Sure, have dessert every once in a while. Don’t deny yourself a piece of cake on your birthday. Live a little.
But be prepared when it comes back to smack you in the booty. I felt horrible this week, physically, anyway. Mentally, I told myself it was OK that I had a little bit of a crazy food weekend—as long as it didn't turn into more than that. I gained 1.8, which isn’t devastating, and I’m hard core back on track this week.
It’s strange. Even though I gained a little this week, I still feel like the way I handled it was a small victory for my emotions. I didn't beat myself up. I don't have tremendous regrets about the weekend. I moved on. But I moved on with a great reminder of how much better I feel when I'm taking care of myself, food-wise.
This weekend? I’m back at The Ronald. And I intend to crush it.