My final weigh-in of 2018 looked a little something like this:
My first weigh-in of 2019 was looking kind of bleak after me making the decision not to track between Christmas and New Year’s. I had one week to lose the two pounds I managed to pack on during my post-surgery inactivity and holiday-season indulgences.
Yeah… it didn’t happen.
On top of that, I managed to reach a new “Oh, shit” weight in the week after that, despite a return to tracking (most of the time). As it turns out, half-assed tracking is almost worse than not tracking at all, as I gave myself the false security of thinking I hadn’t done THAT bad… except I didn’t track the Marco’s cinnamon buns my son and I devoured on Fun Friday, and I may have only tracked half the pizza I really ate.
Something has to change. I feel uncomfortable in my skin and in my clothes. I don’t like the way I look or feel. It’s in my upper arms, my middle, my neck, my face. I want it GONE. And I have to want it bad enough to make it happen.
I knew this was coming, since I had some forced inactivity during the holiday season due to my surgery at the beginning of December. Still, it was within my power to have dealt with it better.
Coulda, woulda, shoulda, didn’t.
What matters now is what I do next.
I’ve had enough. Future Me deserves better.
