Relapse

I have fallen off the proverbial wagon.

This saturday, I ate fast food. I wasn't even conscious of it! Well, that's a bit of a misnomer. I simply relapsed, unintentionally. It was almost as if I was on autopilot. Some friends and I were on our way back from the liquor store and decided to swing by Taco Bell on our way home for a quick bite before drinking ourselved unconscious. My first thought was "meh, I'm not all that hungry, I don't think I'll get anything," not "No fast food for me please!" But as soon as we pulled into the drive thru, I said "I want a crunchwrap supreme, no tomatoes" more as a natural reaction than a decision.

I didn't even realize what had happened (I broke my no fast food vow) until YESTERDAY. Instead of beating myself up over it, I've decided to take the much healtheir approach and not give a shit. BUT also look at it as a learning experience. Note to self: Beware! When approaching fast food windows, natural reactions may occur. Now that I'm aware that I have this reaction when approaching a drive up window, it'll be easier for me to make the decision to say no.

So like any recovering addict, I'll give back my newcommers pin, my 50 days sober pin, and start the program anew. Days without fast food: Three.

Creativity Bug

The inspiration that's been brewing in my soul boiled over yesterday. It was very liberating!

I've always been a fan of Altered Books - and by always, I mean ever since I saw one in Collage (a craft store) about a year and a half ago. And I've even tried to start one...Key word tried. I just didn't feel my artistic eye was up to snuff, so I became discouraged and quit.

Still being a fan of the Altered Book look, I continued to think about them and search for inspiration. Recently, I've been reconnecting with my heavy metal side, and then it hit me. Music. It was like my mused reached out and slapped me in the face. I was listening to "Enter Sandman" by Metallica (a song I've heard several times before, and this hadn't happened) and I could see the pages of the book forming before my eyes. I let the images brew for a few days before I spent HOURS yesterday sketching and looking up Altered Book internet galleries.

I plugged in my Zune and let the inspiration flow. And now I'm anticipating getting supplies and getting started!

Right now: Feeling very Zen.

Confessions of a Weight-aholic

So the two, possibly three of you that actually read my blogisms may be sick of me bitching about weightloss and the trials and turmoils it brings me, but it's my blog and I'll wine if I want to.

Actually, I had an appiffany this morning. In the shower, where I do my best thinking, it came to me: It's unsatisfying to feel like you bust your ass all week, and then have nothing to show for it. I want that damn number on the scale to be lower to prove to myself that my efforts aren't wasted. It's hard work trying to make your life do a 180 towards health, and it would be nice to have something to show for it. Something that says "Good job, you have a result."

Is it wrong to ask for that kind of validation? I've asked myself several times why it's about the number and not about how I feel, and I can't answer myself honestly. I really don't know what it is about the number that makes me feel more confident. It's not like it looms over my head in flashing neon light for the world to see.

But I feel like people can read it on my face. They can look at me and see the screams behind my eyes yelling that I just want to be a few pounds lighter, a few inches smaller, a few muscles tighter. Because honestly, I think I have a great personality, and I'm satisfied with many aspects of my life, that I feel the only thing standing between me and true happiness is that number that pops up on the scale. That God damn glowing red number that I feel branded on my forehead as I try to live my life. And I feel this healthy leaf I'm turning is the best defense against this enemy.

No one can see that number but me. But I want the validation for my hard work. I want to have something that measures my progress. It may be the local clinical scientist in me, it may be something much darker and scary, but whatever it is, it's saying that that number is the manifestation of my hard work paying off.

I can only hope that as my lifestyle change becomes more natural, the meaning of the number will deminish.

Decompression

I had a second to breathe this weekend. Well, actually I had roughly 259,200 seconds to breathe this weekend, but that’s beside the point, which is: I had a chance to slow down and do nothing this weekend. My batteries finally got what feels like a full charge. I had one mandatory social engagement on Friday and that was it, everything else was optional. I got caught up on my laundry, I grocery shopped, I slept well, I hung out with Kimmie and Barb a little (very little actually), and spent some quality time with the couch and Dexter (the tv series). It was nice. Even though I spent part of Saturday and the majority of Sunday feeling like crap health-wise, Zen-wise I felt great.

Sure my immune system was down, I was coughing more than breathing, and my brain was leaking too much awesome out of my nasal cavity; but I felt calm, almost peaceful, as if I had regained my inner balance.

As I look forward to the week ahead, I’m less overwhelmed with things I should do, need to do, want to do, what have you, and am more at peace with each moment. This evening I plan to do a full load of dishes and then spend some quality time with Kimmie and Barb – watching our favorite CW drama of course – and that’s it. Pleasantly un-busy.