moderation, my fanny

I almost didn't do it. I had been avoiding it lately--afraid of what I'd find and what I'd do once I found it. And so I went for three weeks maintaining total abstinence, in complete ignorant bliss, not knowing what the scale had to say about what my body was or wasn't doing. I'd tell you it was a peaceful, serene three weeks without this constant, subjective feedback, but that would be a lie. Feedback, alas, comes in many forms.

Over the past three weeks, feedback has come in the form of pants that fit better one day, but then clinging exactly the same as they used to the next. It has come in the form of bloating throughout the day to the point of having to peel my pants of at night. It has come in the form of checking my reflection morning, noon, and night, to see if it looks any different. I'm unfortunately no less neurotic simply for having not stepped on my scale.

This morning, however, I am slightly more neurotic for having stepped on the scale. All the feedback over the last few days--pants fitting better, people commenting on how I look, the image in the mirror looking a little smaller--all seemed to indicate that there should be a new number on the scale. And a lower one, to boot. So I took a deep breath, crossed my fingers, and took a gamble. And was immediately reminded once again that what SHOULD be and what really IS do not often line up in my world.

My scale blinked the same flippin' number at me today as it did three weeks ago. Three weeks ago. Are you beginning to see why my body makes me crazy? Three weeks of miracle diet, with very few exceptions, and the scale still reads 145. I don't know what... I don't know why... I don't know how... I can't even complete a sentence. There are so many possible endings to each of those beginnings.

Eight pounds lost, five to go. And the scale is not budging. This scares the crap out of me. Why? Because it's beginning to look like I might need to do something drastic. And I'm just not sure I'm up for drastic.

Over the past three weeks, I had two pieces of pizza and a slice of cake for my son's birthday. I cheated. Yes. I admit it. But I did so in a healthy way. I did so in moderation. I did so in order to not swing from the extreme of legalism to the extreme of anarchy. I felt okay about it. The next weekend was my women's group retreat. I went off the diet for one day--ONE DAY--and ate in moderation what everyone else was eating. And this past weekend, we had a birthday celebration for a friend, and I cheated for one meal. ONE MEAL. I did not binge. I did not go hog wild. I did not go completely off the deep end. I ate what everyone else around me was eating, and I did so in moderation.

Here's what makes me CRAZY. Moderation is not enough. Apparently, a few slices of pizza and a couple of desserts over the course of three weeks, even done in moderation, are enough to completely derail any semblance of progress. That makes me utterly, ragingly insane. If I want to take off this last stinkin' five pounds and fit back into the rest of my "fit girl" wardrobe, I'm going to have to be completely, 100% perfect. I'm going to have to resist eating like everyone else at next week's potluck. I'm going to have to possibly go even more drastic with the diet. And I'm going to have to work out even harder. And I don't know that I have it in me to do that.

Some days, I wish I were just okay with being fat. Some days, I wish I just didn't care. Because some days, I just don't think I have what it takes to fight this life-long battle with a body that wants to be covered in a nice, thick, warm layer of fatty flesh. I know what it takes to do that. And today, I'm sick and I'm tired and I'm just not up for it. Not for today, not for this weekend, not for the month, not for the rest of my life.

Tomorrow will most likely look different. I will try to cling to that and put the blinking number and the swirling thoughts and the raging confusion out of my head for now. As for how I shall succeed with that attempt, well, we shall see...