These are the times
You know. The times when you eat perfectly for -- oh, lets just pull a number out of the hat -- NINE FREAKING DAYS -- approximately -- and you get on the scale and your weight is UP. Yeah. You know. Those times.
And yet -- I'm fine. Seriously. I just open my DayTimer and look at all the pretty sparkly stickers -- you know, one for each day, and I know that I'm doing what I need to be doing and the Scalegod will HAVE to acknowledge that eventually.
You've probably heard the rumors about that crazed naked woman who bruised her toe kicking her scale around the room . . . yeah, I've heard that one too . . . what a hoot!
So, the sun is shining brightly outside my office window, but inside my office it's a big 65 degrees and I am shakin' in my shoes. I'm wearing Cuddl Duds under my clothes and I still have to keep a mug of blistering hot water on my desk, just so that every once in a while I can wrap my frozen fingers around it and warm them up enough so that I can hit approximately the right keys.
Also, I'm trying to psych myself up to go get a power salad from downstairs.
I've said it before and by god I'll say it again: It's damned difficult to choose to eat a cold salad when you're fucking freezing.
But I really do need to get the power salad, because I'm meeting my two (Two!) January-birthday-having friends for dinner tonight and they've chosen -- as a special torture for me -- Mexican.
My only consolation is that we're not going to Chevys. And I've sort of convinced myself that Chevy's chips & salsa are the only points-worthy chips & salsa, so as long as I stick to my resolve to order the chicken fajitas and I skip the cheese and watch the amount of rice, I should still be able to rack up Good Day #9.
And as long as I have my power salad for lunch, I won't even need to dip in to my newly refreshed FlexPoints bank.
AlrightAlrightAlright already. I'm going down to grab a salad.