Ugh. I'm back to hating Weight Watchers. Although I'm kind of wondering if there was operator error on the scales today. We had a new person. Just when I'd learned the other lady's name, too.
Get this. All week I've been mostly good. I may have had a sip or two of an alcoholic libation here and there, but if it wasn't imaginary food or a fruit or a vegetable, it didn't pass my lips.
Whatever got through, however, felt obliged to linger on my hips.
I gained a whole frickin' pound!
Yeah, you say, "oh, what's a pound?" I'll tell you what a pound is. A pound is the first dip on that slippery slope back to Chubbyland. That's what a pound is.
A pound is where unwanted pets end up.
You tell people you're annoyed with to go pound sand.
You pound your enemies into the ground.
In for a penny, in for a pound? That cliche was coined by an 18th Century chubbette on a losing streak.
That's what a pound is.
Last Saturday, I shoveled nearly a full pick-up truck load of compost onto a garden and I either biked or walked (at a high incline) on the treadmill 4 days during the week. I worked for two hours in my own yard.
But I had those drinkie-poos. And Greek food one night. And Chinese last night. It's the damn Greeks and Chinese who've done me in. Or maybe it's me. Hell. I hate this crap.
I was so prepared to celebrate today. I'd gotten comfortably into a couple of size 8 skirts last week and I'd stuck to the exercise plan. I want to say that the working out is building muscles and not to freak out over a pound. But I know me. An ounce of rationalization is worth 10 pounds on my ass.
I'm not going to try on any single digit clothes until all my double digits fall to my ankles when I pull them up. Meanwhile, if you want me, I'll be at the gym...