Two months ago today, I told you all that I was embarking on the Diet to End All Diets Part II, and I’d have my pre-baby body back in no time. Yeah. That was a good theory.
Wanna know how much I’ve lost? Five whopping pounds. Well, actually ten (I lost the same five twice), but that still leaves me far, far short of my goal. Which is 28 pounds to get back where I was, but ideally, more like 40 to get me where I really want to be.
See the thing is, when I’m depressed, I eat. When I’m stressed, I eat. When I’m overtired, I…well, you get the picture. And the last two months? Have been chock full of all three of those lovely states of being.
Every week, I faithfully log my weight into my little Weight Watchers thing—even when there’s nothing to report. Lately, it’s been politely saying things like, “if you’re not happy with your weight loss, try…” I’m waiting for the day it takes off the gloves and yells, “Why the f*** are you wasting my time with this? Get off your fat ass and move already!”
Maybe that would actually motivate me?
It’s not that I don’t try. I do. In fact, I’d like to think I’m getting better about eating right. Ice cream has ceased to make a nightly appearance. Cottage cheese has become my regular breakfast. And it’s not like I stuff my face with junk food all day. Well, except for the pizza I had on Saturday. And the Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups I treated myself to on Monday. And the Penn Station I ate for dinner last night.
Oh, hell, who am I kidding? I need help. Internet, do you have any suggestions? Just don’t tell me to go to meetings. I hate, hate, hate those damn meetings—and the cake haters that always seem to hijack them (but that’s another post entirely).
How do I juggle the work/home/constant need to snuggle baby juggernaut and manage to find time to exercise and eat right, too? Without, that is, resorting to diarrhea-inducing pills or faking an eating disorder?
I’m open to suggestions (and sympathy). Even if said advice includes “stop whining, shut your mouth, and move your butt.”