I've been expecting this moment to come. I started a concerted
effort to lose weight about 5 weeks ago. I've lost 15 pounds, but
I have a lot more to go. It's been very easy so far, a pretty steady
two pounds per week (more right at the beginning).
It may not go on like that forever, but I had a realization about a
week ago, which seems pretty darned obvious when I say it:
two pounds a week would be 100 pounds in a year (which is more
than the forty to fifty pounds I really needed to lose, and even more
than the seventy to eighty that I want to). The experience is almost
the very farthest thing from suffering, and I should be able to keep this
up for as long as it takes.
But I knew the moment would come when I'd be at home crying over
Nolan, and it's those times when the thoughts come into my
head, like Fuck it! Crack open one or three of those boxes of
Girl Scout cookies that you have on an upper shelf in one of the kitchen
cabinets. I've done that plenty of times before; of course, every time,
I know even while I'm eating the cookies or cake or chips that it's not going
to help a bit. And I hate myself afterward, even while resigned to the fact
that I'm going to do it again someday.
But at least so far, I've resisted and I think I'll get through the evening. God,
I miss Nolan.
C-Dawg's Office Chessboard Cam
Current streak: 56 wins