Yep. The dreaded D-word.
I got fat. Stupidly so. There’s no denying it.
See, I now live in a country where comparatively? I’m not that fat.
Well, unless I lived in LA or San Francisco, or similar, but I digress.
And I let that lull me into a false sense of security.
But I’m unhealthy at the weight I’m at.
No, I will not be disclosing what that actually is. That is my own personal shame.
But after two weeks of strictly monitoring what I eat when, I’ve shifted almost half a stone. Which is a positive thing.
I’m not sure I’ll be where I want to be come September when we return to the UK briefly, but I’m positive I won’t be 200+lb.
It’s tough, and some days I quite frankly want to claw someone’s face off, but calories in being less than calories out is the only sure fire way to lose.
And I can still occasionally have a beer and a pizza (or half of one at least) so it’s not that bad.
Except for last Sunday, when I wasted 300 calories on two cans of Pepsi* – I was bloody livid.
*The gits are in the process of rebranding. They are turning full-sugar Pepsi from blue to white.
Except their diet versions are bloody silver:
So I nabbed two white cans out of the drinks bin at the baby shower and knocked them back thinking “yay diet”.
Nope. The hus-creature pointed it out to me mid-way through the second and, quite frankly, I could have cried.
Ah well, you live and learn. I won’t be doing that again.