Three more days and I have to weigh myself. The scale has never been my friend. Hub weighs himself every morning before getting into the shower. Weight going up…weight going down…why do I want to start my day off badly if the poundage is the same or more? I hate the damned thing.
I’ve resurrected my dusty Body Bar from the ‘exercise room’ upstairs. It now leans against the counter beside the fridge. Whenever I set a timer on anything – the microwave, the oven – I pick it up and do a couple of sets of deadlifts, elbow curls or squats. The website has some exercises to supplement the (long unwatched) DVDs I have. My theory is, you gotta make exercise opportunities. My butt is sore and my calves, but that will pass. Today’s a swimming day. Instead of counting strokes, I’m going to try to meditate. Positive affirmations. Make up my own mantra. Retrain my brain.
This morning, I finished entering the data for what I ate yesterday. Haven’t been too hungry. More conscious of how often I lift my hand to my mouth to eat something. A bit of broken cracker I’m repackaging, a stub of cheese, half a dozen dried cranberries. I need to work on the 40-30-30 split. Eat more protein. Fish and chicken breasts instead of a slice of roast ribeye and the bechamel sauce in the vegetable lasagna. It’s going to be hard to give up a sliver of butter on my morning toast, though. I’m not good at feeling deprived. And what will happen when I have to eat in a restaurant?