Saturday, December 22, 2007

It's the Most Wonderful(ly dreadful) Time of the Year

What would a weight-loss blog be without an obligatory kvetch-fest about the holidays? That time of the year when you're supposed to smile and act like the plate of cookies on the table next to you isn't screaming out to you, taunting you, daring you to "eat, eat, eat!!"? When the urge to bake gingerbread and eat chocolate feels like a primal instinct and fighting it feels akin to trying to cram the sun back down below the horizon at 6am. When you sit back, having failed miserably at controlling yourself, the sickly feeling of fullness pushing against the waist of your pants and vow that tomorrow you will undertake the diet to end all diets; you will make anorexics envious with your willpower--starting tomorrow.

I hate the holidays. There. I said it.

Sure, sure, I like presents and it's nice seeing family, the Charlie Brown Christmas special makes me cry, and the lights are freaking pretty and all that. But if I could trade all of that for this week to be just another week, with just the regular week food temptations, instead of the shmorgasboard of fat and calories I know is waiting for me starting tomorrow, I would give it all away.

I realize that sounds vaguely eating-disorder-ish (especially the part about making anorexics jealous) and I will concede that it is 100% body-image disorder-ish, but I assure you I love food in all it's forms too much to ever actually develop an actual eating disorder (although I'd be lying if I said I hadn't prayed for one when I was younger, before I saw that havock it could wreak on a person's mind and body). So let me assure you, internet, while I will play weird little eating-related mind games with myself ("let's see if I can get to 4pm without eating"; "I can have that piece of chocolate tomorrow if I still really want it") and I will secretly wish for food poisoning, the stomach flu, or a tape worm, I will never be 'able' to develop a true eating disorder, "try" as I might. Sigh...

But I have to say I have been dreading the next week's festivities. It is hard to have your positive energy and excitement for the season sapped by the focus it takes to keep on track and the self-loathing anger that consumes you as you swallow the last bite of (tenth) cookie that represents your complete and abject failure to get through the holiday without undoing all the good you've managed to do in the past few weeks. It is an atomic bomb of shame, and yet, it's almost impossible not to deal with it, as how can you watch every. single. other. person. in the room eat to his or her heart's content, all the while saying, "oh, it's okay, Sarah! It's the holidays! Just eat!"

They are so well-meaning. They truly don't realize the battle that's being waged inside the tubby girl's heart when she's faced with a plate of cookies and all the smiling faces saying, "eat! eat!" The message they're trying to send is, "We don't see your weight. We love you for who you are on the inside, and we show our love by offering you tasty yummy treats!" How do you say "no" to that? How do you reject that love?

But they don't have to be there with me the next time I step on the scale and see 5 extra pounds; the same 5 lbs I've worked to get rid of for the past month. Back again. I'm the one who deals with that, and the feelings that come with it, all by myself. Every holiday season.

Well, not this one. I am going out on a big massive scary limb here, because I've been so honest in past posts. I did have a piece of baklava at dinner last night. But for the rest of the season I will not cave to the "It's the holidays!! Live it up!" mind-set. I know it's not "every other week" with the same mundane temptations. I know it will be harder. And I'm not saying I won't eat anything or be a big old party-pooper. But I will NOT gain weight this week.

Today I weighed 160 lbs. When I step on the scale on January 2nd, I will not weigh more than 160. I might not weigh less, and that's okay. But I will not weigh more. Not 162 or 165 or even 160.3.

Ugh. Wish me luck.

Thursday, December 20, 2007

Sarah's Chocolate Cessation Program

You know how there are all these smoking cessation programs for people addicted to nicotine? There are so many different makes and models, from 12-step programs, to gums, to hypnosis. I remember back in the day (not that I ever smoked) there was a philosophy that if you smoked a lot more than you were used to, it would make you so sick that you'd never want to see another cigarette again, thereby breaking the addiction and habit. I definitely had friends who were subjected to that "method" when their parents found a pack hidden in their coat pocket or under their bed. Well, apparently today I create and completed my own "stop eating chocolate" program based loosely around that idea, and I'm fairly certain it's going to "take".

It started last night. I read somewhere about the supposed miracle that is "No Pudge" Brownies. Just the fat-free mix, some fat-free vanilla yogurt and 34 minutes in the oven and SHAZZAM! fudgy, fat-free goodness. It sounds sooooooo good. Except for two things: 1.) When undercooked, even a little bit, "no pudge" turns into "no budge" and the mix and yogurt somehow turn to a chocolaty brick that won't come out of the pan, and 2.) yes, they are fat-free, but they contain eleventy-billion grams of carbohydrates, so unless you're going to eat them while jogging on a treadmill, you may as well inject some butter into your thighs--same difference.

Husband and I did end up eating far too many of them considering I said several times, "These are so NOT worth the calories" as I chewed, and chewed, and chewed, trying to get them to dissolve a bit in my mouth so I could swallow them. But this morning I ended up scraping the rest of them out of the pan and into the trash because I felt like I had to take a stand against the calorie-riddled monster sitting on my stove, beckoning me from bed (and yes, I had one before I threw them away, sue me).

So take a stand I did. Aaaaand then I went shopping at Trader Joe's where I sampled the French chocolate truffles. Three times. Um. How's that for conviction. At least those pieces of chocolate were worth the price I will have to pay for having eaten them, let me tell you. Deliriously delicious, my friends, that's all I can say about that.

As if that were not enough chocolate for my poor stomach to digest, I then had three (okay, four) peppermint chocolate oreos at our play group holiday party. Dear god, they were delicious.

Of course, I ate nothing BUT this all day because in my warped mind, as long as I didn't eat anything else then I wasn't getting an insane amount of calories (kind of like my "If weight-watchers chocolate cake snacks are only 1 point each and I get 24 points a day, can I just eat 24 weight watchers chocolate cake snacks?" question). Note to self: This is NOT a productive mindset at all.

I can't quite describe the nausea I am dealing with at this very moment. If I weren't obsessive about keeping track of my cycle, I'd think maybe I was pregnant and experiencing some seriously overwhelming morning sickness. But alas, it is just a billion grams of sugar trying to digest in my shell-shocked stomach. The stomach that has been so nicely adjusting to things like yogurt and grapenuts and apples and water and salads and smaller portions and reasonable amounts of sugar.

Seriously, I don't ever want to see a piece of chocolate again. And I really, really don't want to step on the scale tomorrow.

Tuesday, December 18, 2007



Not the end of the world. I was dreading a 164 or something like that, so I should be relieved. But I hate that stupid 6. Hopefully it will be gone next week.

I bought myself a food journal today and am instating a strict, "you bite it, you write it" policy with myself. That means the bite of Ethan's french toast I had this morning and the handful of corn flakes I treated myself to during his morning snack have to get written down somewhere, much to my chagrin and embarrassment. Oh well. Hopefully it will make me more aware of how many stray, empty calories I put in my mouth every day.

And, it is going to be above 45 degrees every day this week, so we will walk every day this week.

Hopefully by the end of the week I'll be looking at a number on the scale with no 6's in it.

Monday, December 17, 2007

Who Am I?

The strangest thing has happened. I can't bring myself to step on the scale. Me, the 3-time a day'er. I haven't been on a scale since Saturday. I know it's because I'm afraid to see the 160's still. I was so excited to see that 159 and the (oh god, how cheesy) the promise it held of less scale-anxiety and eventually cuter clothes and a re-discovered collar bone. Sigh.

When I stepped on it on Saturday morning and saw 160 again, I think some small happy dieter inside me checked out. I wasn't *bad* this weekend, per se, but I didn't go out of my way to be good, either. My family was in town and I cooked my first Channukah dinner, complete with massive hunk of red meat, cooked in onions, garlic and oil for six and half hours and served with an entire bag of potatoes and two bags of carrots. Granted, it's not like I ate the entire piece of meat or the whole bag of potatoes, but I feel like I did.

I am going to make myself step on it tomorrow; I find that I am obsessing about it more now that I can't bring myself to get on. If I see 161 or 162 tomorrow, it will break a piece of my heart, but at least I will know what I'm working with and hopefully that will get me back on track.

Wish me luck.

Saturday, December 15, 2007


So fine. I am still at 160, but considering what I've eaten this week, what with Operation Gratuitious Hospital Stay and Husband's company holiday party last night, it is impressive that I only packed on 1 pound instead of 4-5.

Husband & I were going through pictures today, trying to find images to use in JibJab's holiday cartoons (dear god, they are pants-peeing funny people) and I have to say, even being down 10 lbs-ish in the past four months or so makes such a huge difference. I am still 20lbs more than I was for our wedding (and I can only blame 15lbs of that on the pregnancy; 5 of it is comprised of coconut shrimp and an elixir called a lava flow consumed by the pool in Hawaii). The embarrassment level suffered upon looking at pictures of myself as gone from the soul-crushing "horrifyingly" to the merely uncomfortable "very". It's far less painful to look at recent pictures of myself, but I am sure that, should my losing streak continue, in a few month's time the holiday pictures that are sure to come into existence in the coming weeks will seem hideously deformed in comparison. That's okay. I am willing to cringe later on if it means I am closer to my goal.

But for now I re-set my expectations for this week. More water, more walking. Maybe I will get to wave good-bye to the 160's yet again, for good.

Wednesday, December 12, 2007

One step forward, a half-marathon back...

So, yesterday morning I stepped on the scale to see a 159 smiling back at me. It was a wonderful, joyous, yet short-lived moment. I didn't have time to revel in the ecstasy of there not being a 6 at the front of that number because I had to take my son to the doctor and then to the hospital, where he was treated for a nasty bout of croup.

In the stress of it all, I didn't eat breakfast, nor did I get lunch. In the back of my warped little head, this was a good thing and maybe I'd actually see an even lower number the next time I stepped on the scale. But once the situation with Ethan stabilized, I was overcome with that need. The need to stuff my face. Granted, I had limited choices at the hospital, but what I had, I took. A turkey sub, with the girl behind the counter's interpretation of "a tiny bit of mayonnaise" (read: mayo oozing out the sides like I had actually ordered a mayo sub), eleventy billion graham crackers and something that was supposed to pass for vanilla pudding. I even had a swig or two of chocolate milk out of a carton.

This morning, I was faced with my arch-nemisis, hospital french toast. During my pregnancy, I was hospitalized for 2 weeks in the second trimester with threatened pre-term labor. Hospital food is...well, hardly food, but for some reason the french toast rocked my world and I ordered it, even writing it in when it wasn't on the menu itself (as a long-term patient, I knew they had it down there even if they weren't advertising it). Fourteen days of french toast--that's a lot of egg and milk soaked bread fried in butter, my friends. Man, did that taste good. So when it came this morning on my son's breakfast tray and he refused to eat it? I ate it. I cut off the crusts and offered every single bite of it to Ethan first, but I did eat it.

And when Husband brought me a grande chai tea latte? I drank it. And when Ethan wouldn't eat the muffin Husband brought for him? I ate half of it. Somewhere mid-way through that muffin the fog cleared and threw the rest of it away, like I was re-entering my body and realizing for the first time what I was doing.

I am the queen of emotional eating and it seemed no amount of "don't eat that, Fat Sarah!" in my head could counteract my hand from reaching for the food. It wasn't even good food. Most of it was utter crap. But I ate it anyway. Sigh.

On a side note, as I watched Biggest Loser last night I realized one of the women went from 168 to 160 this week. I had to laugh, as I lay there next to my son and digesting a mountain of crap food I didn't need to eat but did, that she lost in one week what I have spent an entire year trying to get rid of. Granted, if I were on the show and had the chance to work out that hard daily, with that type of rigorous nutritional plan, I'd be giving Nicole Ritchie a run for her money, but was kind of a kick while I was down to see those specific numbers after having eaten my body-weight in junk.

I have no idea what I weigh today. I am focusing on the happiness of putting that hospital stay behind us and the fact that Ethan's on his way to a full recovery. I can step on the scale tomorrow and begin the marathon all over again if I have to.

Sunday, December 09, 2007

This is the Week...

I got up this morning and I was holding steady at 161. That means, if I can keep it up, this is the week I wave goodbye to the 160's. It's been a long year hanging out here--hopefully it won't take me whole year to wave goodbye to the 150's.

Although, if I'm totally honest, I hope that by summertime, I am watching the scale inch it's way (slowly) back up. It's difficult to know that this weight loss is temporary and really in an effort to get ready to gain again. I certainly hope a second pregnancy doesn't bring me another 40lbs (although, it was only 30 until my c-section and then they pumped me full of 10lbs of fluids). The plan is to get as much weight off before getting knocked up and then eating like I already have gestational diabetes from the second I see that second line.

The first time I got pregnant, I had been at such a comfortable weight for so long, and had lost the excess chub so long ago, I simply thought, "eh, I lost it once; I'll just lose it again!" in a cavalier sort of way. I had clearly forgotten the hours of hunger I had put myself through the first time, not to mention the sugar withdrawals that gave me headaches and made me go to bed with the sunset just so I wouldn't snack. Those things were not conducive to dealing with a newborn. So the weight (except for the 10lbs of water I got rid of over the course of 3 days) stayed put.

Oh, I also just assumed throughout my entire pregnancy that breastfeeding would melt away the pounds like "they" claim it does. Huh. I guess it's not until after you start nursing and noticing that the weight isn't going anywhere that all these women come out of the woodwork and say, "I know! I didn't lose an ounce until I weaned junior! Then the fat just fell off of me!" Well, nothing is melting off of me, I can assure you, but the scale did become a bit more pliable after Ethan weaned. So I will know this time around that I cannot eat that piece of cheesecake and assume that it will magically transform itself into breastmilk for my child when the time comes. It will stay cheesecake flab on my ass (or under my bra strap---mmmm, pretty).

So there are lots of reasons for me to believe that I will be able to handle myself more cautiously with food the next time around and that I won't find myself stuck for eighteen months at essentially the same weight I was when I gave birth. But still, as I watch the scale put up smaller numbers by the week, I am starting to realize what a blow to my system it will be to see those numbers climb back up again.

Here's to hoping that the next couple of months of weight loss prepare me for a safer, healthier pregnancy, so I can actually get up and walk around this time (as opposed to 4m of bedrest) and keep the scale from bouncing up to the outer limits of the stratosphere...

Saturday, December 08, 2007

It's the Little Things...

It seems like every store I go into this season is trying to lure me to buy something with the promise of a sweet nibble at the register. I've seen it now in several stores, the latest one being Pottery Barn Kids (where I have totally bought into the idea that my child might end up torturing kittens one day if we don't prove our undying love to him with a personalized Anywhere Chair this holiday season--but this is a topic for another blog).

This morning as Husband and I exited PBK empty-handed (apparently everyone else also NEEDS this particular chair), we stumbled across a bowl of assorted chocolatey treats and I was faced with my first real temptation of the week. It is easy for me to walk past a bowl of hard candy. I'll eat a Wherthers or a peppermint if pressed (you know, by those gangs of roving peppermint pushers), but they aren't really something I find myself lusting after.
Chocolate, however, is a different story. Like most women (I hate to be so unoriginal), I share a certain connection with chocolate that to be umbilical in nature. I must have an entire section of the brain (the Happy-thalamus, perhaps) that thrives on the stuff and that part of the brain is apparently quite the addict.

So to see an entire bowl of mini hersey's and reeses peanut butter cups just sitting there for the taking....well, it was an ordeal of epic proportions for me, as hyperbolic as that sounds. It's easier, in my opinion, to turn down the giant slab of chocolate cake than it is to turn down a little, seemingly harmless, peanut butter cup. I tell myself, "eh, it's just one little piece of chocolate; I shouldn't always be denying myself, right? I mean, if I never let myself have any chocolate, I will end up just binging on it one day anyway! So I should definitely, definitely have this piece of chocolate."

The problem with that isn't the logic behind it. Of course it's good to treat yourself, on occasion, to the treat that is your passion. Everything in moderation is a fine way to live, no doubt. The problem is, I say that to myself EVERY.SINGLE.TIME I come across a piece of chocolate. So it's a flawed rationale because I am using it as an excuse to constantly eat that small piece of chocolate. And when you eat 3-4 small pieces of chocolate, my friend, you may as well have had that giant slab of cake.

Today, though, I took a deep breath and walked past the bowl of chocolate. And I actually feel kind of good about it. I know it doesn't mean that the numbers will necessarily be lower the next time I step on the scale, but I do know it means I took one little step to make sure they aren't higher...

Friday, December 07, 2007

Scale, Scale, on the floor...


Stupid yogurt and grapenuts for lunch & chicken and asparagus for dinner. They just make me long for chocolate cake.

But I'm happy with the scale today, so's worth it.

Thursday, December 06, 2007

The Devil Wears Denim...

Or..."A fat girl's lament over trying to buy jeans"

I live in jeans. Since leaving the work force to pursue my life-long dream of being spit-up on and wiping a snotty nose, I have pretty much forgone the niceties of Anne Taylor Loft and Banana Republic for the more basic attire offered at say, Old Navy and the Gap. I am deeply entrenched in a "jeans and t-shirt" lifestyle these days and there are times when I long to bust out of that and wear a cute skirt and a kicky pair of heels. But it's not so convenient and honestly, it doesn't feel as good in my chubby body as it did in my thinner one. So I tend to think I will avoid cute skirts and the like until such time as I can feel a bit more flirty and less frumpy when cavorting in them.

So that leaves me with yoga pants (shamefully, there is no yoga happening in my life, so that's kind of false advertising), khakis (which I do own, but they've never been my style. I am not a fan of beige), and the ever-present jeans. Always mid-rise, always dark wash--because who needs to see the pooch and dark is always slimming.

But finding a pair of jeans that fit and feel good has always been an enigma to me. I see women who look so comfortable and natural in their jeans it's like they grew them right out of their own skin and I wonder, how in the hell did you manage that?

The first bone I have to pick is with the Gap. You and your whole "Long and Lean" line. Never has a line of jeans been so woefully misnamed, almost so blatantly a ploy at sucking up, it is pathetic. I walked through the Gap one time last year, post maternity jeans, pre-anything vaguely resembling the size 8s I'd been wearing for years. I was hiking up my yoga pants and blowing hair out of my eyes, no doubt, when the vulture of sales rep said from behind the counter, "You should try our Long and Leans! They'll look great on you!"

Please take a moment to note that she said this, with a straight face, to a 168lbs woman who stands 5'5''. I am, by even the kindest estimation, neither long NOR lean. And yet, here was this minion of the demin-devil smiling at me without a hint of irony, suggesting a jean whose named mocked me with wild abandon.

I humored her. I fished a size 12 out of the pile (wouldn't you know it, wedged in between a size 2 and a size 4--ah, the humiliation of it all) and wheeled Ethan's giant stroller into the handicapped dressing room. I thought, in a perfect world, when I tried them on, the lower 1/2 of my body would magically transform into Heidi Klum (she's had 3 children, I've only had one--it could happen. maybe. not).

Yeah, that didn't happen. I stayed 5'5'' and 168lbs. But, lo and behold, the jeans did fit. Nicely. I was distraught at the size on the tag, but as a chubby girl, you learn not to focus on the number on the tag, just how you feel and look in a particular item (how sad that I could teach a class--Chubby Girls Self-Esteem 101).

I realized as I was shelling out my $60 at the checkout counter that they had totally gotten me. These jeans weren't for women who ARE long and lean. They are for tubbers like me who want to believe we CAN BE long and lean. The name is such a temptation--"ooooh, chubby girl, try on these jeans and you, too, can look tall and skinny." If Eve had been a chubby girl, the snake could have easily offered her these jeans instead of an apple and who knows how the history of the world would have turned out.

So fine. I get home with my Long and Lean (and it may even be Long 'n Lean, which is even more obnoxious). And I love them. They are exceedingly comfortable and they look great on me. But then they do this thing after I've worn them maybe a 1/2 dozen times. They stretch. A lot. I'm not talking, a little give so you throw them in the dryer and *poof!* tight jeans again. No, I mean, they stretch so much that I've been known to pull them off without unbuttoning or unzipping them--they just wooosh! slide right off.

This may be good in some circumstances, like shaving nanoseconds off of foreplay when your kid FINALLY goes to sleep at night, but could wake at any moment and probably will. I am grateful for the ease with which they slide right off on those occasions.

BUT, it is not such a welcome thing when you are carrying your child in one arm, a bag in the other, walking through a parking lot.....and your pants start to fall down. Right off your ass. Even with a belt. Ah yes, good times.

So, you say, "Fat Sarah, it's time for a smaller size jean! That's great!" Except it isn't. Because no brand under the sun makes a size 10 that I can fit my ginormous butt into (and it's not the butt actually, it's the pooch; 10s fit nicely everywhere else on me, but I can't sip them. Sigh). I have even started a habit of randomly trying on size 10 jeans when I go shopping, to see if, just in case, some line has decided to take into consideration the sizable buddha-belly that many moms are left with after having kids. And I've tried on size 12s in other brands and lines. All too big.

Sadly, my friends, I am no clearly identifiable size.

So, if you see a woman on the streets of DC, wearing jeans that really seem to be several sizes too big for her, and muttering to herself, "stupidfuckingjeans" while she tries to hike them up...that could be me. Just do us both a favor and look away because it just ain't pretty.

Monday, December 03, 2007


I don't to jinx it, so I should keep my ginormous mouth shut.

Still 162.

Sunday, December 02, 2007

Two Steps Forwards, or Lighter,

as the case may be. Today when I stepped on the scale, I was at 162. That's 2 lbs down from the last time I stepped on the scale (maybe a day ago?). Normally, one would be thrilled at a 2lb loss, wouldn't they? Sure. Not me.

It's not that I'm greedy and need to a bigger number of shed pounds. It's that I know the next time I step on the scale, it could say 165 or even higher. Even if I step on the scale 45 minutes from now, it won't say the same thing. It never does. My body weight fluctuates 3-5 lbs by the minute. So while I rarely see anything above 164 these days, I often see readings between 161 and 164. They all mean I really weigh 164. Not much point in getting excited about anything that doesn't mark a distinct 5lb difference.

Sigh. I know, I know. "Fat Sarah, you aren't supposed to get on the scale more than once a week!" Clearly, anonymous voice trying to speak sense, you just don't know me. I have a tendency to obsess and I am, sadly, all about instant gratification. If I want to make a particular purchase, I must do it immediately. I can go months without getting my hair cut, but the minute I decide it's time for a trim (or a radical new 'do), I must get my ass to the salon that day. So it is difficult for me to ponder my weight and then convince myself to wait until next week to find out what it is. It's just not happening.

So I step on the scale often; sometimes 2-3 times a day (*hanging head in shame*). I know it's not right, but it's who I am and it's actually made this process easier to deal with to just accept that. Before, when I was a closet-weigher, I not only felt guilty about my weight, but also the fact that I was constantly on the scale. Now that I've given in to that part of my nature, it's easier to see the numbers, refocus my intentions and not beat myself up over the fact that I need to see the numerical proof that I am indeed, a bit of a tubber. I've actually found myself, (and I don't honestly know if this is healthy or not) curbing a craving for mindless chomping by running up the stairs, stepping on the scale and coming back to reality when the digits appear. Again, I'm not sure if it's the healthiest way to go about it, but hey, at least I ran up the stairs, right?

But it is Sunday, and that's only a 1-weigh a day-er. So it's nice that I at least have the image of a 2-lb weight loss in my mind for the rest of the day, even if I know it isn't a number I can rely on to be there for me tomorrow.

Saturday, December 01, 2007

So, let's have a Dr. Phil moment...

Don't get me wrong, I am not a fan. Dr. Phil, in my opinion, has no right to give anyone advice on how to lose weight (hello, "Dr", you're a bit of a tubber yourself, no?), but I have to admit, much as he's gone the way of Springer and Povich in recent seasons, I always admired his whole, "How's that working for you?" and "It's time to get real about your life" mantras. You know, back when he was trying to actually help people change their lives rather than cramming Klansmen and African Americans together in the DRPHILHOUSE, just to create a spectacle akin to a massive train wreck.

So I guess that's what I have to do--I have to sit back and stop rationalizing. I have to stop making bargains with myself ("you can have your chai and muffin on Saturdays and Sundays if you don't during the week. Oh, but you can have sugar free hot chocolate every day of your life. And a splash of that peppermint creamer won't hurt. As long as you're not having chai and muffins!!").

I have to stop going through the "Okay, I will only eat South Beach diet bars for breakfast and lunch" phases because, sure, I might be able to pull that off, but those are the stretches of time when dinner consists of my body weight in pasta and 2 more South Beach bars before bed.

I have to stop the "Let's see how long I can go without eating" game and congratulating myself with a binge when I make it 5-6 hours, because, well, that just smacks of After School Special: The Eating Disorder.

These are all things I've done in the past year; all with little to no results. Don't get me wrong, I've also gone on long walks, eaten lots of vegetables and fresh fruit. I've turned down unhealthy foods on inumerable occasions. I even bought Nutrition for Dummies. I just haven't opened it yet. And if Dr. Phullofhimself were to ask me about all these silly little games I play, "How's that working for you?" I'd have to admit--it's not working at all.

I know I have to stop playing victim to my own behaviors. I had to do that 6.5 years ago when I lost the weight the first time. I got down to 135 at my lowest and felt downright skinny (even though that's in the middle of my "where you should be" range). The only problem is, I really don't remember how I did it. I know I moved from NH to here. I had lost almost 10 lbs before moving, just with the business of life that comes when planning a major life change. I didn't have time to obsess and fret about every bite. I had even less time to take those bites.

And I guess that's how it was when I first moved here--the stress of the new job and the hours I put into it necessitated far fewer snacks and rushed, tiny meals. I did, however, have time for the gym and I ran, for the first time in my life. I am, not a runner. I am not even close to what one might call a runner. But I did it. And the weight did come off. So perhaps that's what I have to do.

See...that's what I am talking about. "Perhaps". Duh. Um, that's what I have to do. Period.
I'm pretty sure Dr. Phil would call me on the use of the word "perhaps". I'm also pretty sure I've watched way too much Dr. Phil in the past.