As I was drifting off to sleep last night (that sounds like how a princess gently falls asleep. My entry into slumber is actually a lot of rolling around, pillow rearranging, nodding off only to awaken myself by making a weird sound, and eventually passing out.), my mind kept returning to that number…181. 181. 181…? It started to sound wrong to me. I started to think that my ego (and not my brain) had done the number crunching, say “removing three pounds for clothing/boots,” and I had convinced myself that 181 was the weight on the scale, so with three pounds removed…178 would be my “actual” weight.
But somewhere in my subconscious, I knew that 181 was the “actual” weight.
So, I got to my desk this morning and drank a load of water and ate my breakfast, just like yesterday, and toddled down to the scale. And got confirmation that I’m a big, FAT, lying liar. The scale screamed at me, “YOU WEIGH 184.4 POUNDS!!! JUST LIKE YOU DID YESTERDAY!”
And then I bent down to pick up my water bottle and the lining in my pants ripped.
Are you fucking kidding me?
But I’m still not going to get discouraged. I’m going to lose this weight. I must lose this weight. Because the last time I was this heavy (and then some) was when I was drinking. And all of this makes me feel very out of control, like I felt then.
Day two, in progress.
Live, love, lose.