My feet hurt. I walked for an hour tonight. It’s not much, but it was enough to make me feel a bit tired. Some days I wish we didn’t have that stupid scale so that when I feel the need to eat lots of cornmeal pancakes I don’t have to see the quantifiable effects. Geoff has lost 28 pounds, and he’s looking better every day. I, on the other hand, have lost only 14, and this week I gained two. I think I liked it better when we didn’t have the scale. It’s so disheartening.
I’ve been for a walk three days in a row. It’s hot and irritating. I’ve always loathed exercise for the sake of exercise. For the first twenty years of my life I danced four to eight hours a day, so I never thought twice about exercise. Before my daughter was born, I worried about being too thin. Whine. Whine. Complain. Complain. I know I should stop complaining and do something about it. But to be quite frank, I’m feeling a bit pissed off about the whole notion of being thin right now.
Why can’t I be magically skinny like all those gorgeous movie stars who I never have to see sweating at the gym or getting into tummy-flattening undergarments? Why can’t I have perfect hair and makeup like they do? If their hair and makeup crew is just out of shot, they don’t exist, right? Those women wake up in the morning looking magically beautiful. There is no effort or will involved.
Dispensing with the delusions and moving on to the good part, those cornmeal pancakes were pretty fantastic. And there’s a bunch more in the freezer, so they can continue to be fantastic and make me fat for days to come. I haven’t baked anything since Monday, so I had to get a sugar fix somehow. Perhaps that demontor’s still wafting around outside my door. Where’s my damn chocolate?