|Borrowed from Wikipedia.|
So I was super-excited when I weighed-in on Friday and saw 272 on the scale. Even more excited, albeit a bit apprehensive when I saw 270.5 on Sunday. But when I saw 268 on Monday morning? Frankly, I was a little terrified. Okay, a lot terrified. What the heck is going on? I'm dropping weight like nobody's business, and I haven't changed any of my exercise or eating habits and in fact hadn't been to yoga class last week because I was sick with a really bad chest cold. (I was light-headed walking from my bed to the bathroom.... putting myself in downward-dog and various other strenuous positions did not seem like a wise idea.) Losing nine and a half pounds in ten days (I was 277.5 the previous Friday) is ridiculously fast and I started wondering what the hell was wrong with me. Am I sick? (Sicker than just a cold). My son suggested a tapeworm or other parasite... I am rather fond of undercooked meat, so not completely out of left-field. Basically, my entire brain was screaming "WHAT THE HELL" at me, over and over and over again.
So when I got home? I ordered pizza for dinner. I actually *talked myself into it*. I had planned dinner, there were pork chops thawed in the sink, and I convinced myself that I was too tired to cook, and that the kids should have pizza. I rationalized it at first by saying I'd order a pizza for them and a salad for me, but the cheapest deal was two medium pizzas and six cans of pop, so that's what we got. My pizza had chipotle pulled pork and BACON on it (real healthy, as if the pizza wasn't bad enough). And I ate an ENTIRE medium pizza, minus one slice. When I saw that last slice staring at me from the box, I did all kinds of beating myself up (Rob can attest to this, I was still beating myself up four hours later when he called). I felt like a horrible person who was deliberately disappointing all the people who have been supporting me.
This morning, I hopped on the scale, saw 271.5, and felt RELIEF. How messed up is that? I was honestly terrified of how fast weight was dropping off for NO APPARENT REASON, and I was relieved that a pizza binge still had the normal effect. What the hell. I want to lose weight, right? I'm happy that all my clothes are loose, right? Well, yes and no. I'm a bit sad that a lot of my favorite tops just fit like tents now. I'm disappointed that a lot of the new bras I bought less than a year ago don't fit anymore (like at ALL). Heck, the new ones I bought at Thanksgiving aren't fitting as well as they did a few weeks ago. None of my pants fit right anymore. But I can't afford to replace anything yet. I'd love to buy new clothes, but when I go into the store, nothing calls to me.
So now I'm worried, frustrated, and sabotaging myself again. I thought I was doing better than this :( I've wanted to lose weight since puberty, so now that it's happening, why am I so afraid of it?
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