I would like to say I behaved reasonably for a couple of months with regards to food, and then I went on my work trip to the Middle East and ate my weight in hummus and pitas and did ZERO exercise for a month. I wish I was exaggerating, but I'm not.
This was the perfect segue into the holiday season where it seems I just ate in fear of never eating again. Cookies, fudge, more cookies, potlucks, cookies, pie, brownies, cookies. And oh yah, COOKIES. Deliciously buttery shortbread cookies.
I took my winter coat out a couple of weeks ago and put it on. It was snug. I was telling a colleague that, and she blatantly said "Well, your boobs are looking bigger". I was slightly offended, but she hit the nail right on the
I hate the scale. I really do. I think, at one point mastered the art of healthy living to the point where I didn't need a scale. I wasn't losing anymore, but that was ok. I ate well, and worked out hard. That was a perfect balance for me.
So here's where I confess: I got on the scale and the number I saw started with a 2. I puked a little in my mouth. This is not acceptable.
I've written a lot of these "heart to heart" posts lately. And I hate that. I know how to be dedicated to a healthy lifestyle, but somewhere along the way I stopped caring. I stopped caring about proper food choices, and more importantly I stopped caring about ME.
There are many diet clichés out there about inner beauty, the scale is only a number, blah blah blah. But you know what? I need to care about this number, and that's all there is to it.
I was a January Joiner once and rocked it.
I think I'll try it again, but December 28th is the new January 1st. GO!