Apparently, starting a diet on January 1st isn’t the best idea.
I mean, January’s pretty easy, because you’re all gung-ho. Mantras include “I can do it!” and “This isn’t so hard!” and “ I am Shera!”
|It’s okay. You can laugh. I did.|
Then February rolls around…..and BAM–the 8th is the hubs’ birthday. Dinner out somewhere sinful. Climb back up on the bandwagon and a few days later….BAM–it’s Valentine’s Day. Mandatory romantic dinner, again, somewhere sinful. And chocolate. Don’t forget chocolate.
By the end of February, I’m feeling not as slim as I’d hoped. In fact, I’m feeling slightly rotund. Somewhat chunky. A little bit bloated. And a LOT guilty.
Now here I am, two weeks into March, and the bad habits have returned in full force. Chick-Fil-A? You got it. Donuts and coffee? Yep. Don’t say the “S” word…(soda)…The Coca Cola Company is my arch-nemesis.
And apparently, my shiny sword cannot defeat the consumption of empty calories on its own.
Which is a shame, because it can do lots of other things. You know, typical sword-y type things: it glows in the dark, it’s crucial for impaling evildoers, and you’ve never seen thinner slices of tomato in your life.
The truth is, when I’m three months in and the scale isn’t really budging that much, I lose my confidence, my drive. My will to live. (Just kidding.) Logically, I know that I could be doing better. My workouts could be more difficult, my calorie counting could be, well, existent, and my meals could be healthier.
Emotionally, I just feel like a complete and utter failure.
When it gets to this point for me, it’s like there’s an evil little fuzz monster sitting on my shoulder, yelling horrible things at me.
|Mean Fuzzy Monster. I don’t like you.|
This little monster continually berates me, beats me up, leaves me feeling abused. Ultimately, it reminds me over and over and over again how many times I’ve failed at weight loss. He’s not a fun buddy to have around. (And no one can see him but me, which makes the time I spend hurling curses in his direction somewhat fruitless. And I imagine I look somewhat schizophrenic.)
I need to find a way to replace the evil little fuzz monster with something more cheery. An image that will not only scrub those mean little messages out of my brain, but that will also replace them with happy, healthy, “You Can DO It” messages.
Eureka! I’ve got it!
|Goodbye, evil little fuzz monster. Hello, Richard Simmons!|
That’s just the pick-me-up I needed! Thanks, Richard!