I got my scale back Friday night. I couldn’t weigh myself until Saturday morning. I will admit, it was really hard not to hop onto that thing Friday night, just to check. Self-control and fear won out, though mostly fear, and I went to bed weightless. I woke up early the next morning, though, and double-jumped onto that thing.
I mean, I would have liked my arrival into the 250s to be more lion than lamb, but I really can’t complain. 259. Such a small/huge change. Now that I know my body is physically capable of weighing less than 260 lbs, I have in my possession a kind of guarded optimism. An optimism I really need to hold onto since I’ll be launched a new experiment today.
While I’m going to stick to the diet, and hopefully get better at it as my body falls back into the swing of eating on a regular basis, there’s larger, more pressing issue that demands my attention: I drink too much goddamn Diet Coke. I think part of the reason that I haven’t been eating, aside from general stress, is that I’ve been substituting meals with the brown horse. This stops today. Well, stopped today. I got a bunch of weird looks this morning when I went outside and ceremoniously poured out the last bottle of the fizz on the ground (for my homies). The weird looks were probably more about the fact that I was crying then they were about me pouring an entire bottle of soda onto the street, but that’s irrelevant. No more soda, for two weeks. I think this is going to be harder than the scale, by far.
Saturday boxing actually happened, and man, it sucked. Working out on a Saturday is just the worst. Everything is hard. I popped my elbow, pretty bad, and then got hit in the eye with a loose chain. I feel like it was more a trucker fight than a boxing workout.