On the bad days . . .
Wednesday, March 08, 2017
Tough winter. Read my last entry and that was right before the stress wheels came off. It took me 8 months to lose 32 pounds and three months to gain 27 of it back. /sigh/
But now, after two months back on it, I've lost 12 of it again. It's just sickening to think it'll be May before I get to where I was back on the first of October. What a waste of time.
If there's any good side to this, I really do feel as though I'm eating the way I intend to eat forever, so now it's just a matter of time. Slow, slow, slow, slow time. But in the right direction, at least.
This morning I saw a photo of me in my hometown paper. We're trying to get people to sign up for farm shares and so I talked to the paper, and they did a story, which was very nice (it would have been nicer if they'd not spelled the farm name three different ways). But this huge photo of me is, well, huge. I look like a composted whale. Splashed there across the front page of the paper, all over the valley. It's so humiliating. I'm not vain enough to expect a flattering picture. But geezacriminently.
But there's nothing to do about it. It is what it is. I can't live in a hole and not leave the house until Christmas when maybe I won't be ashamed of how I look.
Sometimes you don't realize how bad it is until you have to look at it. The irony is, this morning I was thinking I could finally see a difference again, I am making progress and looked okay-ish. And I am. But I have a long way to go.
I try to tell myself that this is my last year of obesity. I'm at 215 now. Sometime in early fall of this year I'll get below 185 and into the "overweight" level. Maybe by the end of the year I might even broach 155 and get to into the "normal" range. Maybe it'll take longer than that, I don't know.
I do know I have no intention of giving up. I'm 54 years old and I absolutely refuse to spend the rest of my life feeling self conscious. I'm done. I hate it. And I'm not going to do it anymore. So, several more months of this, and then it's over. Finis. Finito-benito. The end. I don't care about scale number, either. I'll know it when I see it.
And whenever I need to kill my appetite, I'll just get out the newspaper . . .