Oh, this weekend was bad. Bad, bad, bad. I blew it. I blew it pretty damn bad, and I owe some of that to these evil, evil pieces of gastronomic ecstacy:
Oh God, I cannot resist them. Or candy corn. I simply cannot.
Or, at least, that's what I tell myself. It's not much a defense, really.
At least, not until I get a boyfriend. Which the diet will help me do. If I stick to it. But I digress.
So my daughter had a friend over on Saturday and she casually mentions that she loves lasagna and she even makes it with her father at his house.
To my knowledge, my daughter would sooner tattoo her forehead with a likeness of the Teletubbies rather than let lasagna touch her lips. And now she apparently loves it, and they eat it at Dad's all the time.
So I let her know of my surprise and she asked me to buy the stuff to make lasagna with and we made some lasagna.
Years she goes without liking lasagna. Years of her telling me she hates it, and she decides to love it and want it when I am on a diet that won't allow me pasta or dairy, so noodles and oozing, cheesy goodness are not things that I should be shoving past my lips. I might as well just apply them directly to my thighs with a trowel, for Pete's sake.
So I climbed on the scale this morning for my
cold slap of accountability weigh-in and I lost a measly pound. I probably lost more going into the weekend and ate it all back on. And I've got nobody to blame but me. I didn't use my mantra. I didn't stop and think. I didn't weigh the consequences. I just blindly shoved sugar and pasta and cheese in my mouth and you know what? I felt like crap last night. I really, really did. I mean not just mentally, but physically. I felt lousy.
Lesson learned for this weekend: Nothing tastes as good as progress feels.
Except maybe the damn pumpkins, so I'm just going to have to practice avoidance with those, I think.