I'm sitting here eating a bowl of graham crackers in milk. I usually do eat a bowl of cereal after the kids go to bed. I've even heard it's good for your metabolism (although that may be propaganda from the cereal companies). I don't eat dessert, so . . .
The problem is that I'm gaining weight despite exercising more consistently than at anytime in the last few years. I don't mind the number so much--I have started strength training and that might add pounds--but the fact that I can't fit into any of my pants, even shorts I wore with ease earlier in the summer, that bothers me. Here are the places my thoughts go:
My metabolism is shutting down . . . I'm getting old . . . There's nowhere to go but down (or, in this case, up) . . . Maybe I have a tumor. . . How come my husband can eat and drink whatever he wants and never go up or down more than 2 pounds? . . . I'm going to have to wear skirts everyday to hide my gigantic ass . . .
I have had some weird health things this summer, most notably two yeast infections, the first of which went untreated because I didn't know what it was and kept thinking it would go away. And I just got back from a week of vacation where I didn't exercise, ate as much as I could, and drank more than usual (that is, every night I had a few glasses of wine). The toe just happened last week, so I doubt that's been much of a factor yet. I am willing to give myself a break. I mean, I'm going to keep exercising and eating my normal healthy (if + extra cereal) meals, and try not to worry about it.
I want to start running again, but when I think that the last time I ran consistently (~3 years ago), I was 20 pounds lighter, I think I might not be able to run. Which is silly because people run at all weights. (People, yes, but what about me?) That would mean getting up earl(ier than my kids), though. Ugh.
I'm going to check in with my progress here every once in a while. I'm not going to record my weight or anything, but I'd like to be able to measure my satisfaction with things like fitting into my pants, over time.
Maybe, I joked to my husband while we were cooking dinner, I need to start breastfeeding again. He looked at me with horror.