Tuesday. Weigh-in day. I woke up this morning with "will-I-or-won't-I" going through my head.
(Before I go on, may I just say I would much rather wake up with nothing in my head, or with something pleasant in my head, but waking up with "will I get on the scale or not" in my head is just WRONG.)
We also had a restaurant meal on the way home, and by that time I was tired and in one of those who-gives-a-rat's-ass moods anyway, so it was fast food all the way.
Which explains why I've felt so bad the last couple of days. It hit me this morning, after digesting the comments, that the only allergy I really have is to processed food. I ate far too much salty fried CRAP. Even choosing a salad for Saturday's lunch didn't make up for the damage from the sweet potato fries someone ordered as an appetizer for the whole table. And don't even talk to me about chips and salsa.
So anyway. To sum up: I could have eaten better and I know it. It's not the first time and it won't be the last. Knowing the relationship I have with my scale, I debated about assessing the damage.
In the end, I decided to go for it, because that number is information, not judgement. RIGHT? Also, my wedding ring has been very slippy-slidy lately (my favorite non-scale weight-loss indicator) and my workouts have been pretty consistent. I'm doing things right most of the time, even meals, when you consider that three out of an entire week adds up to a cheat day. Except I spread mine out over two days.
Ten weeks into the year and nine since I started South Beach, and I stayed the same as last week. Eight pounds in 10 weeks. I'm certainly not the poster child for Dr. Agaston's plan, but I'm okay with this week's result. Staying the same feels like a huge victory to me.
It also makes me think I'm boring and shallow for spending so much time thinking, worrying and writing about whether I should get on the effing scale or not. Aren't you glad I limit this kind of silly talk to Tuesdays? Heh.