I weighed myself yesterday. I’ve lost 3 pounds this month. Three. Frickin.’ Pounds.
I ignored Girl Scout cookies throughout my office. I turned down all unplanned snacks. I went to yoga twice a week and sweat buckets. I deserve a parade! I should get a medal. Instead I lost three little pounds.
I’m a little upset, but I don’t think I’m unbalanced about it. This is the longest I’ve ever gone with the scale numbers moving only down. In terms of volume, I’ve taken twelve sticks of butter off my body. I’m stronger than I was a month ago. I’ve made progress emotionally and spiritually. I’m making real changes and I’m committed to this program of recovery.
But I’m impatient. I want the fat gone now. I want to be in the next smaller bras, not in-between sizes like I am now. I want the size I currently wear to hang sloppily off my frame so I can get rid of it all for good. I want to buy new summer tops, but only because everything I own is too big, not because I’ve got food stains on the chest of everything I wore last year. I want my outside to reflect my emerging inside.
I want, want, want! What I don’t want is to work for results. I don’t want to learn the lessons I obviously still need to learn. My portions are still enormous and my refined carbs heavily outweigh my veggies. When I decide to work on this, I react with the opposite choices.
So I am unbalanced and probably always will be on this subject. I should probably talk about this with my sponsor and at meeting tonight.