As of this morning, I'm down 20.2 pounds since I started tracking my progress online using the Weight Watchers website. I'm down almost 22 since I started this blog, to 274.6.
That's under 275, which may not seem like a great number, but when I remember that I started this blog with less than five pounds to go until I hit 300 (hence the title), I'm pretty proud.
Twenty five pounds away from 300 is A LOT better than five!
The rate at which I'm losing is slowing down, but I'm just happy that the numbers keep moving in the right direction. I've caught myself "cheating" more often lately, but I'm beginning to feel more like I am making a realistic connection between the "If I eat more, I MUST move more" rule. Preferably, of course, I would just eat LESS and STILL move more, but, as with everyone, I'm a work in progress. And I AM eating less. A LOT less. And a lot BETTER.
Today, for example, my husband and I went to the Overlook Cafe in Falls Park. I ordered a turkey sandwich on multi-grain bread with alfalfa sprouts, tomato, spinach, and mustard, with a side of broccoli salad. When it arrived at the table, the sandwich was GIANT. Immediately, I said to my husband "I'm only eating half of this. The other half is for supper." He agreed, and we had a great, filling lunch AND I didn't have to cook supper! All for 15 bucks. I highly recommend!
Of course, I probably shouldn't mention that we also split a piece of strawberry cake with cream cheese frosting. I know, I know. Sugar is the devil.
But "sinning" just tastes so DAMN good. (Sorry, pun intended.)
After lunch, we walked a while on the trail, and then picked up our CSA veggies and went home. By the time I got home, the sugar high had passed, and the subsequent dip in blood sugar nearly wiped me off my feet. I took a glorious three hour nap (Can you tell the kids are visiting Grandma this week?) and woke to the sound of my husband, chopping organic beets.
I hate beets. I've always hated beets.
But, I'm also a chronic Midwestern pragmatist. Wasting beets is just not in my DNA.
Mike roasted the sliced beets with a tablespoon of olive oil and a little kosher salt. He forced me to try one, against my will. (This forcing me to do things against my will thing is not something he succeeds at very often, so I the beet battle is a bit of a victory for him.)
Right there, at my kitchen table, my world view relative to beets shifted.
They were delicious. They didn't taste like dirt, as I remembered them from childhood. They were the perfect texture, a little "earthy" tasting, and a little like the potatoes I've almost eliminated completely from our menus.
So, we got out the leftover sandwiches, finished off the roasted beets, and put on the running shoes.
Time for the power walk. We went for an hour and fifteen minutes. I don't know the distance, but I suppose someday I'll waste the gas to figure it out with my car.
As we approached the last two blocks to our home, I decided to "jog." I put the word in quotes because my "jogging" is more reminiscent of an elephant in labor than a human athlete in training. I could barely lift my feet off the ground and I could feel every pound of flab and blubber bouncing around wondering what the hell was going on.
It was quite a scene, something akin to geriatric night at fat camp, I suppose. I swear I could feel the sidewalk cracking behind me as I went and hear new fault lines forming in the tectonic plates of North America.
But I made it. And nobody threw anything or yelled nasty epithets out of a car window (Yes, this has actually happened to both my husband and I before).
I made it to the front door after "jogging" two blocks, and promptly pledged never to try that again.
Okay, maybe in another fifty pounds or so, but I'm pretty sure my finely coiffed neighborhood is NOT ready for a jogging fat lady.
Oh, well. I'm still under 275, so that's something, right?