I’m buzzing this morning…it’s a little after 6am and I’m heading off to the Kingdom of pain shortly to attack my muffin top and bingo wings – the name of this morning’s class – and then I’ll be coming home to shower, change and pack for my weekend away. I’m bubbling over with excitement at the prospect of seeing my best girls.
I had to laugh last night as I was getting the stuff together that I’ve bought to take with me…prosecco and gin, obviously but instead of chocolate and cheese balls there are four melons and at least a ton of grapes. How times change, huh? Last time we were away I managed to wrestle the Asshole voice into submission and keep my treats to the bare minimum, but this time I’m going to have to keep away from naughty stuff altogether due to this whole clean eating malarkey. And you know what, I’m cool with that.
My gold seven disc will be coming with me, in fact it’s already in my bag and I’m determined to trade it up to the gold fourteen after the weekend. Today marks 67 days of being food sober, and I’m all over it to the point that it’s sickening, although I’m saying that with a smile on my face. It’s funny, my head is slowly catching on to the fact that the high I get from having a ball without self-sabotaging is totally worth the effort of expending a little willpower here and there. It’s a fair trade-off, you know? I do this and I get this. And the Asshole voice remains strangely quiet…the balance of power has definitely shifted since I pissed on his chips with this abstinence from refined sugar.
I thought I’d killed the Shitbird Scale yesterday…I was feeling skinny, so I thought I’d have a cheeky little mid-week step-on just to see whether I’d dropped ten pounds since our last encounter. Unlikely, you say? Yes, but hey you never know, right? I felt thin so it was worth a try. Anyway, I was met with a blank screen, even after I’d nudged it with my toe several times. Nothing. I was about to have a hissy fit on the basis that it’s barely out of the box, until I realised it just needed a new battery. Clearly it finds my ‘best of fifteen’ approach to weigh-day quite draining. Shitbird thing.
So anyway, once I’d had every cupboard and drawer in the house upside down looking for the right sized battery, and then tracked down a munchkin-sized screwdriver to unscrew the ridiculous battery cover, to the untrained eye it looked like the house had been ransacked, and I’d worked up a proper sweat. It would have been totally worth it if I’d lost the ten pounds I’d fancied, but as it transpired it’d only budged by one. Still, since it was only three days since weigh-day, I’ll take a pound. I’ll happily take a pound.
Right, best get a wriggle on…my hour of torture awaits. I hope you all have an awesome weekend, and I’ll catch up with you next week 🙂