Okay this morning's weigh-in did not go well. At all. But rather than cry over spilt coconut milk, I'd rather learn from my mistakes and move the hell on.
I now need to lose 19.5 pounds – arghhhh! – to reach the magic BMI. That's seven pounds more than the lowest weight I was able to get to last year. If I'm to accomplish this goal in the next 61 days (which would be on my birthday), I need to buckle down.
There aren't many minefields on my calendar for the next couple months. A banquet April 4 and another one later in May are really the only events at which I won't have any choice about the food.
I'm going to pretend that 20 pounds have crept up on me over this horrid, brutal winter, rather than seven. Spring truly is in the offing – even though the roads this morning are snow-covered black ice – and soonsoonsoon I'll be able to get a long walk in every day. Food choices have been all over the map, but there's absolutely no reason not to get back on the Whole 30 horse for a couple of months.
The combination of clean eating and increased activity worked for me beginning last April. No reason history can't or won't repeat itself. I've been far too liberal with all four paleo forbidden fruits. I'm not just seeing those results on the scale, I'm feeling the telltale achy joints.
But … my jeans still fit. My wedding ring is still loose. I don't look like I've gained seven pounds and I don't look like I need to lose 20. And there's the dilemma. For all those who say BMI isn't accurate or doesn't matter, I say – for me – it has to. Otherwise I'm pretty comfortable right where I am, and right where I am is 20 pounds too much.
Pretending that I've always been at a normal BMI and, over the course of three months, have seen an increase is a head game I'm willing to play. My hope is that once I get there I'll feel and look SO terrific that staying there will be more important than eating birthday cake.
And anyway, my birthday falls during strawberry season, not cake season. Heh.