An Ounce of Prevention

Well, the verdict's in, and I'm not happy with it. At my weigh in last night, I found I lost only an ounce this week.

1 Ounce.

1 Oz.

What. The. Hell.

I thought about beating myself up over it, but I tried to stay positive. In the past week I've excercised more than I have in 3 months. The Taft Test has proven a non-scale victory in that regard: I'm turning fat into muscle, which takes up less space but weighs more. That could have caused me to break even; I always maintain for a while when I start working out.

I'm also celebrating my period this week, and I have historically unsuccessful weigh-ins during that time. Not because I overeat, but because I retain. It's just the nature of woman.

On the other hand, I have to be honest enough to admit I was a little sloppy in my measuring this week. I drank 3/4 of a bottle of wine over the weekend and a couple nips of Bailey's to usher in the snowy weather. I don't drink as a practice, so I don't anticipate those added calories posing a problem in the future.

Because I was a little depressed last night, I got a little self-destructive and went to Starbucks and got my milk serving in the form of a nonfat chai latte. And I had a nibble of carrot cake. And I went to the local tacqueria and ordered chips y salsa and some chicken fajitas. BUT, I only ate 3 corn tortillas full of chicken and veggies (about 1 cup), a couple of bites of rice and beans, and about 12 chips. I stopped when I was full, and my heart wasn't in it. I left behind 3/4 of the chips and 3/4 of the food plate, and I poured flaming hot sauce over everything to stop nibbling. Self-Destruction: 0.5, Willpower: 0.5.

I just need to persevere, not be so hard on myself, and not set unrealistic goals. I'm pretty sure the pounds of cure will come off in time.