I don’t know if it’s bad mojo, the six-week blahs or birthday blues, but I’ve hit my first rough patch in my weight loss journey.
Over the weekend, I wound up eating more and doing less than I planned. That's okay, I told myself. It's a holiday.
Yesterday, I had to work through lunch, so I missed my noontime workout. That’s okay, I told myself. I’ll do something after work.
Then I got busy helping my daughter Pisa figure out some crazy computer animation program she bought with her own money. Anyway, it’s harder than Chinese arithmetic, so all of a sudden it’s bedtime and I haven’t moved a muscle all day it seems. Plus, my stomach’s growling like a pitbull. That's okay, I told myself. I'll have a snack.
I’m standing in the pantry thinking that I’ve already shot any chance of some scale love this week by eating too much on Monday and not doing a blasted thing on Tuesday. Why not have a little late-night munch-munch?
That's not okay, I told myself.
It seems I’ve spent most of my life living to eat instead of eating to live. I started this trek to change things and I feel like I’m on my way. There’s always gonna be bad days, but bad days aren’t what got me where I am right now.
Maybe even bad years.
Bad days are a blip, here and gone. They only mean something if you let them mean something. If you let them add up, and you let them change your path.
I post a lot of silly sh*t in this space, but make no mistake about it: I’ve worked d*mn hard to get where I am right now. I've dropped thirty pounds over the last six weeks, and I’m not letting a bad day or two knock me off my game.
I’m in it to win it.
Whoops… I meant, lose it.