So much has been written about the quest to shed weight.
While my son's wedding being Covid-delayed a year was a bummer for him and my daughter-in-law, it was a good thing for my weight loss plan. I had an incentive to stave off the weight for the big day.
Now that it's come and gone, I've been engaged in a battle of wills between my brain and my waistline.
My brain is whispering things like, "It's okay, you can have some chocolate. Or another slice of pizza. Or a hot fudge sundae. You'll just exercise it off tomorrow. And, hey, remember, you're cutting the grass this weekend, that really burns off the calories."
Meanwhile, my waistline is saying, "Welcome back, fat cells."
In an effort to motivate myself and prevent backsliding, I made a trip to the second-hand store with all the pants that are too big for me. And I treated myself to a few pairs in my new size. I keep hoping this will be enough to quash the devious whispers in my brain.
Also, I have a weekly ritual with my scale. I get on it, shut my eyes tight, send a quick prayer to whichever deity is in charge of weight loss, and peek at my current tonnage.
If I'm up a pound, I know it's time to get out the "personal training" video and crank up my workout. And limit my visits with Stella (Artois) to once or twice a week, as opposed to nightly.
I've been here before, and I know the challenges. Getting older is not helping my cause any. It's harder and harder to shed and keep weight at bay.
Also, I find it discouraging (though not surprising) that there's a roll of fat clinging to my waist that's not going to disappear, no matter how many times I do Denise Austin's abs exercises. I can at least blame this on childbirth and/or genetics.
All I can do is get up every day and keep chugging along, accepting my limitations and doing my best.
And, of course, give the Dunkin' Donuts at the corner of our street a very wide berth.
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