dianaschnuth

I reached a new “oh shit” weight this morning.

190 pounds.

I’m 5’9” tall, so that keeps me firmly in the “overweight” BMI category, and gives me a solid 20 pounds to lose to get back to that elusive “healthy” weight range that I saw once, a few years back — and 30 until I reach my goal weight.

Time to return to “Why Did I Eat That,” which I can only examine because I returned to tracking daily.

Action plan:

Return to the ritual Closing of the Kitchen. That means either filling or emptying the dishwasher, packing lunches for the next day, wiping down the sink and countertops, and making myself a tea and possibly a final dessert of yogurt with healthy toppings.

Get back to ordering Americanos at the Bux instead of trying new drinks before I know how many Points (calories/sugar/fat grams) they contain.

Pack lunch three days out of the week. Only buy lunch out twice during the work week.

Finally: I’m not going to get down on myself. I’m not going to wear the clothes that don’t currently fit me, knowing that I’ll feel worse in them. I’m going to continue tracking and being active.

I’m not going to delude myself that a) this weight will melt off like butter or b) I’ll never reach my goal. Either side is a delusion. Instead, I’m going to work at fueling myself properly, paying attention to how different foods affect me physically, and following the WW plan (since that’s the plan I’ve chosen to follow).

Constant vigilance! I’ve got this. No worries.

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.

My lowest weight ever was 166 pounds, on April 16, 2016.

I hovered around 170 for the rest of that spring and summer. Come November, I started a slow and steady climb up the scale that wouldn’t quit until I reached my “Oh Shit” weight of 180 the following June.

Ever since then, I’ve been wavering around that Oh Shit weight, give or take a few pounds. I’ll have good weeks and not-so-good weeks, but the scale pretty much hovers in the same spot, on average. My Oh Shit weight has become more of a status quo, a fact of life. I live in my Oh Shit weight, so I may as well be comfortable with it.

This year has seen me regain some momentum in the right direction.

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