Dieting sucks.
Seriously.
I mean, how was I supposed to know that you actually had to, y'know, work at it? I didn't really have to work at getting fat, so getting thin should be just the opposite. Of an easy time. That I didn't have to think about. That...
Oh. "Opposite." Ri-ight.
The good news is that I'm still three steps (or so) ahead of where I was when I started this mess. The bad news is that instead of eight steps to go, I now have about fourteen. If only I had kept on track, I'd be finished and at my goal (given previous milestones). If only I had re-started every single time I swore I would. If only I hadn't let my daughters de-rail me. If only, if only, if only I hadn't gotten fat in the first place.
There's nothing to be done about that now, though. All those ships have sailed off into the North Atlantic and met their respective icy ends. It's the ship I'm on now that matters. And I am back on that ship, and it's sailing full steam ahead--although the soda craving still sends icebergs near enough the ship that I sometimes wonder.
And while I had hoped to usher in the local hockey team's new arena with a slim, "hey, my butt can actually fit comfortably in these seats" look, I must content myself with knowing that the end of the season may well see that goal realized. At least I fit better than I used to, and the seats are supposed to be plenty wide. I may even have room to spare by the end of this!
That's all good news.
But that's not the best news.
The best news is that this time the wife is going along with me on this journey, and we'll both be the better for it. We're not on the same exact path (I'm a meat-eating, carb-counting carnivore) and she eats lots of rabbit food (Weight Watchers), but we're near enough to each other that we don't have issues keeping the other company.
Except maybe when she hoards her points for ice cream.
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