Google search: Edward Somerset, 2nd Marquess of Worcester
Head-on collision with .4 pounds of imperfection.
You say you’re totally cool if the scale goes up. You say that. You say, you got this whole year to do this. You feel, the night before, that you’re open to anything. But then the scale goes up and the realities of now, the stress you’re under, the two nights of pizza in a row, the fact that you’re crossing the Red Sea are all forgotten.
God, I wanted in that moment to say what in the ever loving fuck is happening? I have a plan. The plan’s a pound a week and we can’t go backwards. If I start to spin my wheels, I’ll give up! I always give up!
Which is true. At the first instance of adversity, I feel as though stars aligned against me and that I may as well turn back. Or that I’m rattling a safe and comfortable status quo (which I am) and that means I might feel something risky and new. It’s 30 seconds on this platform and already I question the whole concept of tracking. Suddenly, everything becomes unknowable. Everything I’m doing feels loosey-goosey, without authority, as you like it. Not this confirmable, one to one match with a plan outlined by God, put only this much in your mouth and run until you gasp and then, and only then will I, the god of belly fat, withdraw, mathematically, your pudgy stomach.
I want the failure to be clear as day. (If it is a failure, it IS clear. It’s the two pizzas and the Blood Moon, and a couple apathetic exercise days. I just don’t want those things to add up to failure, maybe?) And they don’t. Maybe I built some muscles? But the “failure” also includes the success of having tracked those pizzas, having gotten on the bike and moved my body to the point of dancing yesterday, of having done twice as many situps, eating a 1000 times less than I would have at the Galentine’s Day party today because I was aware of what was going into my gob.
I am building those kind of habits. That’s pretty great.
I wasn’t planning to stop. I am not planning to stop. But of course, I never PLAN to stop. I never hit these moments of adversity and say, OH NO, I CANNOT! and throw a white flag. It’s tiny, tiny slides. It’s saying, I will start fresh tomorrow rather than I start fresh now. It’s saying, I’ll just have this calorie-laden thing because it’s too much to handle right now. It’s saying, I’ll just guesstimate on MFP, because it’s too embarrassing to put down what I know I actually put in my mouth.
So I don’t know, precisement, how many calories are in the mimosa I drank or what the single cream cheese spinach wrapped thing contained, but I know enough to guess at it. I can get pretty close. I can do something more than nothing. I can exercise through these cramps.
The party was nice. Very nice to talk to a couple old friends and see them in a context free of the entanglements it used to have with work. Already there are pictures up on Facebook and I find myself having to settle myself down and say it’s okay to post this on your timeline. No need to act like you weren’t there in the body you have.
Talking to my mentor, equally, but differently nice. Feeling someone’s interest in my life without having to explain anything.
My feet feel about 50% better, too. My driving panic was held at bay, even going so far to try and reclaim a road this morning. It helps with the time of the year, this deep dark shadow that wants me to lay down, very still, and wait for the last morning. Valentine’s Day and the long rope it can go piss up.
I just feel real talkative about it all. It’s early enough, the money is going to work out for Tuesday, I got done what needed to be got done and there’s some real time to relax. So. Yes. Yes. Yes.
Come on, belly, let’s have another day of dancing.