Yes. I do. Ten, in fact. Ten to be pleased with myself, five to exit panic mode.
“But Lady J,” you say. “You look great! Why are you obsessing about a number?”
You’re damn right. I’m fine as hell. And thank you, by the way. But this 10 that must be rid of came on in TWO. WEEKS. Yes, the past two weeks have involved carb loading for a race, an upper respiratory infection, and a sprained ankle, and I’m also winding down in what has been an insane school year. No matter.
But my clothes feel fine.
Don’t get it twisted. I feel pretty miserable. I could very easily attribute that to my maladies and lack of exercise. However, I haven’t been eating well and I knew that the scale would read a higher number than I like. But 10 pounds? I would have NEVER guessed my debauchery has been that bad.
There are some who advocate judging your current state by how you feel generally and how your clothes feel. I’m betting I would have had to gain another 5 pounds before my clothes started to feel different. 10 is bad enough, but 15? No thanks.
Many proponents of not looking at the scale also are of the thinking that you should not beat yourself up. To them I say, “What if you’re full of shit?” I know that I’ve been falling short of what is best for my body. I don’t deserve hugs and kisses for gaining 10 pounds. I need to tighten the F up and deal with it. I know better and did not choose to do better. Am I going to berate myself for two weeks of bad decisions? Probably. But so help me God, those 10 will be off by the end of the month. Sanity and self-love be damned.