Please, Mommy, No More Cabbage

Day 30 of Operation: When The Fuck Did I Gain 1/3 of a Person?

Net Loss: 2.4 lbs

Frustration Level: Chewing on my lip

After one month of eating high-fiber English muffins with non-fat cream cheese for breakfast, salads for lunch (involving red cabbage which I am coming to loathe since it makes me try to sneak farts at the office AND THAT ALWAYS ENDS BADLY), one small portion-controlled snack in late afternoon, reasonable dinners of mostly veggies and chicken, and one pathetic, miserable serving of reduced-calorie ice cream for dessert, I have lost approximately 10 pounds (or for the math-retarded, about 2.5 pounds per week). And then every weekend I convince myself that my increased activity level of leisurely strolls, badminton, and doggy-paddling is enough to merit a break. That’s when I screw myself by consuming everything in sight, which has thus far included: entire logs of cheese, bottles of rum, bags of Doritos, and big fat hamburgers with the works. So every Monday morning, I find myself just about returned to my previous week’s weight. Lose 2.5 pounds, gain 2 back. That’s my motto.

The important part here is that I realize what the problem is. I gave up on the food journal after day three, but it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure this one out. I need to stop binging on the weekends even though it’s probably one of my favorite activities. It’s negating all the boring salads I’m suffering through [Tangent: Salads are my only option. It takes at least two Lean Cuisines to fill me up so I end up supplementing my Salisbury steak/desiccated broccoli with a bag of Chex Mix and it’s all downhill from there. You think I should just bring a bag of carrot sticks to keep myself away from the vending machine? Well, I think you should mind your own business.]

While I grumble to myself in a corner, Beau, who actually has some restraint, has lost six pounds. Not for long though, because I’m going to start pouring molasses in his mouth when he sleeps. Also on a lighter note, despite what the scale says, my pants are fitting looser. Either those were the fattest 2.4 pounds on my body or I’ve lost fat and gained muscle, which I find completely acceptable. Our fancy scale has a body fat percentage function (determined by sending a light electrical current through your feet – how awesome is that?) that I’m going to start tracking.

All in all, I think we’re off to a good start. I’ve revamped many of my eating habits in a way that didn’t seem possible before. I’ve stopped snacking incessantly when bored, I’ve stopped eating cookies from Bell’s desk at work, and I’ve encouraged Beau to pump up our dinners with veggies instead of cheese. This month I’m going to work on not completely dropping the ball on the weekends, tracking my body fat percentage, and (most frightening of all) exercising more. This is particularly scary because Beau’s sister has invited me to join her and their cousin on a split-triathlon. She’s going to take the biking portion, their cousin will take the run, and I’m theoretically going to swim 1/4-mile. That’s nowhere near as much distance as those two need to cover, but if we consider this in terms of fitness level, it’s probably proportionate to what we all can handle. Since I never got a gym membership (color me guilty) I’m trying to find a reasonably priced pool in the area so I can begin training. I would swim laps when I'm on the Cape but I’m afraid to swim more than 10 feet from the boat due to rip tides, jellies, and gigantic man-eating fish. Especially now that I’ve just reminded myself that I am a juicy morsel of human flesh that likes to splash around like a small animal in distress.