You've been there before. I know it. You go on vacation. And you eat. Everything. Portion control? Out the window. Dressing on the side? Who's eating salad? Not much of a dessert person? That doesn't stop you. Calories become your friends. The more, the better. And each and every night when you go to sleep feeling happy and bloated, you feel so popular!
And then each morning, as you slip into those shorts or jeans, and the task seems a tiny bit more difficult, you tell yourself you are imagining things. And then you go find a few thousand breakfast calories to inhale. And then on the car-ride home, the long, screeching-filled trek, when you are scarfing Chicken McNuggets - a food you deemed disgusting mere days before - and washing it down with the dregs of your daughter's milkshake, you think nothing of it. It's so very hard to be healthy on travel days. Right, right?
Home again. You reunite with that subversive scale that waits patiently for you to step on and face reality. But you do everything in your power to avoid the step. You shower. You brush. You examine the tan that doesn't exist. And then you tell yourself that it can't be that bad. That having a grip on reality, however fat that reality has become, is better than delusion. And then closing your eyes, you step on. You lean forward a bit because that usually shaves a half pound or so. You open your eyes.
Two pounds. Not bad. Not good, either. But then you think of all the yummy wine and cookies and famous Buffalo hot dogs you consumed. You think of the fun you had welcoming those two pounds and you think: maybe, just maybe, it was worth it. And then in the mirror you smile at yourself. Proud of this patently good and healthy attitude about things. Proud that you have not morphed into that melancholy creature who doesn't appear much on vacation. Proud that you are cutting yourself some proverbial slack. Proud that you are seeing things for what they are. Two pounds. That's nothing!
And you dress and giggle at the fact that your clothing is actually or seemingly a bit snug. And you get on with your life.
And then you boycott bread. What?! What happened to that sensible creature in the bathroom who embraced the imperfections in diet and humanity? What happened to that healthy and realistic attitude that life should be enjoyed and not controlled at every moment? What happened to the ever-rational conclusion that two pounds is negligible?
I have no idea. But please let me know if you find her.
In the meantime, you are not eating bread. Or any sugars or grains for that matter. And it has been two days. And, yes, the numbers on the scale are behaving again. And you even feel a bit better. A bit healthier. And, yes, these results would probably have occurred if you simply stopped ingesting 3000+ daily calories or eating cookies after breakfast or snagging goodies from your child's Happy Meal. But you credit yourself. Your control-freak self. For taking life by the reigns. For blaming innocuous and nutritious bread. For taking life which was blissfully fun for two weeks and squeezing all the joy and extra calories from it. Good for you. You must be so proud of all that energy you invested in banishing two pounds that you could have put toward writing a chapter or making an art project with your girls or catching up with a friend. Good for you.