The Weigh-In

This morning starts my seventh day of the 'nuttin but liquids' diet I've created for myself.  The innertube seems to have deflated considerably around my middle. I've been paying close attention to that indicator for the last few days and have noticed small differences. It's easier to bend in the middle Easier to put on my shoes and socks. I grabbed a t-shirt out of my closet yesterday and realized as soon as I put it on that A) it was an L instead of an XL and B) it wasn't terribly tight. Paired with the loose shorts I was wearing, it didn't even reveal a muffin top. I also wore a belt yesterday for the first time in months and my puffy vest zipped up nicely so I didn't even feel like I was wearing it so people would think the puffy was my vest and not my giant belly.

But for all those little indicators, I wasn't yet ready to step on the scales.

So I purposely waited until today to check for clear results. It's Saturday, so I slept in. The hubs is out of the house at the hockey rink for a few hours, so I have the place essentially to myself. As I lay in bed this morning, assessing my form under the sheets, I felt a noticeable difference in my belly size. I turned to my side and assessed the jiggly mass that's usually there. Absolutely no doubt that it's smaller. I got up and stood in front of the mirror in just my underwear. Turning sideways this way and sideways that way. Assessing the back fat (still there, definitely less hideous), assessing the way my underwear fits (no muffin top at all). All are positive indicators that this is working. My only deviation from nothing but chicken broth has been the single daily apple, and the two evenings I had 3 celery stalks (stalks not sticks) with a little ranch dressing. Apples and celery are both negative calories, meaning it takes more to burn them than they contain going in. I've not cheated, I've not strayed, I've done everything right. My body has to be responding. It feels like it is. But I need to prove it.

I know me. For all the indicators, today might not be the day to check. It could backfire. Feeling confident in the size change doesn't mean my head is in the right place. 

I crawled back in bed and spent an hour buried in my iPhone for news, Facebook, and Candy Crush (DAMN YOU LEVEL 291) until I'd run out of lives, all the while having a conversation with the little therapist in the back of my head who was busy assessing my mental state. She doesn't judge, she just leads me through my own consciousness objectively. She's my good conscience.

Note: Rather than an angel and a devil, my good and evil consciences take the form of a concerned therapist and an evil clown. Because I don't really believe in the devil and clowns are truly terrifying.

The therapist asks:

1. What is your goal on the scales?
2. How big of a result do you want to see?
3. What if you don't?
4. Are you going to go downstairs and have leftover pizza from last night?
5. And let's talk about this eating thing...you're not famished, you're not starving all the time, you've got a rhythm going here, so even if the results aren't huge, can you handle what you see on the scale without binge-eating?
6. What if the results are bigger than you hoped?
7. Are you going to reward yourself with a cookie?
8. ARE YOU READY TO SEE IF THIS WORKED? Because let's face it, the last time you tried something extreme (the infamous GM Diet Cleanse) the 'guaranteed' 10-17lb weight loss after a week, for you, was 4. And on WW, after 2 1/2 weeks, you gained 2.5 pounds. And in both cases, you just said fuck it and started eating whatever you wanted.

She always makes so much sense. Even with the salty language. So I answered her back.

1. To validate that what I'm feeling is actually happening. That it's not my imagination. That the number goes DOWN.
2. My goal is 5 pounds. That's all I want. It's reasonable, it's attainable, and it shows real progress.
3. Anything less than that may leave me in a puddle of tears. And after the radical intake of calories, zero weight loss or even a weight gain will have me making a Dr. appointment. I'll be convinced I have something seriously wrong with me.
4. No. even if the scales don't agree, it's still easier to put on my socks. They can't take that away.
5. RIGHT?  Last night, I cooked two pizzas for my daughter and her friends before they headed out to watch a school play. I had no desire for a nibble, a crumb, or a lick. When putting away the leftovers, one single piece of cold pepperoni was still on the plate. I swear I heard it call my name. So I put it in my mouth. I chewed it. It was salty and spicy. But I chose not to swallow it and spit it in the sink.* So yes, I can handle it. Whatever the number is.
6. Anything more than 5 pounds will make me extra happy. And I may do a little dance. Unless it's a full 40 pounds, it will not change what I'm doing. Promise.
7. No. Even though I know there are cookies downstairs that the raving band of 17-year-olds did not consume, I don't want one. I rarely crave sugar and I crave it even less when I'm in full-on Atkins induction, which is where I feel I am. Completely in control.
8. YES YES YES I AM READY! I will put down my iPhone. I will empty my bladder, put on my contact lenses so I can see the number clearly, take a deep breath, and I will step on the scale. And no matter what it says, I will stay on the wagon. I promise.

*Sidebar: Before anyone freaks out and calls me bulimic for spitting out a piece of pepperoni, it wasn't about the food, it was about my mental state. My desire to shrink from the current hefty size 16 trumps my desire to swallow a piece of pepperoni. I know, with absolutely certainty that that single slice of pepperoni would have had zero impact on the number on the scales. Where it MIGHT have an influence is on the evil clown. The little bastard  would poke incessantly on some nerve in my brain that would make me think 'well, you've already screwed up with that piece of pepperoni, clearly you're off the wagon, you may as well eat the whole pizza since you've complete lost your rhythm already. do it. Do It. DO IT.' He usually keeps poking until I agree with him. Spitting out the pepperoni was my way of shutting him the hell up. When I'm 105 pounds and spitting out food in the sink, THEN you can worry about me.

So anyway here we are. The scales. I pee again to make very sure I'm not weighing any excess liquid. I try to determine the weight of my contact lenses and the hair clip holding my thick hair off my face and calculate that they're probably insignificant, but that I can blame them if I have to. And I step on.

The number flashes up.

WHAT?? No way.

I step off and reset it, and step on again.

YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!! 

For shizzle.  It's right.

Not 5 pounds. TEN POUNDS.

6 days of virtually no eating at all. 10 pounds.

SO. COMPLETELY. WORTH IT.

As I walk back to the bedroom in my underwear, my smile gets bigger and bigger. The tiny therapist is smiling and telling me I am more than entitled to be delighted. And that the best way to reward myself is to keep doing what I'm doing. I agree with her.

Meanwhile, the evil clown is pounding his head into the wall, leaving the a shmear of white face paint on the bricks. I've ruined him. I've won. I would include a cute graphic of a sad clown, but honestly the Google Images search I just did on sad clowns was so horrifying I couldn't even find one. And if I posted one, I'd never be able to read this post again. So use your imagination.

I came down to the kitchen, put the few remaining cookies in a storage bag for those who are still eating solid food. I poured my cup of water that I then doctored it with my SlimFast3 packet (I have no idea if this has been a factor or not, but I figured it wouldn't hut, and they're tasty) and drank it. Then I poured my mug of chicken broth, heated it up, and am sipping it responsibly.

My way of celebrating today is to go to the store and get some beef to make another pot of broth. Because I am firmly on this wagon.

Carry on...