Fifteen days ago I weighed 201 pounds, and wrote a blog stating my desire to do something about it.
Weighed myself this morning: 193 1/2 pounds.
I’m thrilled! Elated! When I penned that initial post, it was in the immediate aftermath of a camping trip to Carmel, N.Y. There were Oreos and chocolate chip cookies and chips and marshmallows, and I, semi-literally, never … stopped … eating. I took and took and took, piling hundreds of calories into my body in a single (largely forgettable) gulp. I was drinking soda and juice, just pigging out out of some habitual need to eat.
Since then, I’ve worked on changing my thinking. With rare exception, there has been no snacking, save for fruits and vegetables. I haven’t touched a non-diet soda (and relatively little soda at all), instead going with water or iced coffee (one packet of sugar and some non-fat milk). I’m still eating full meals (this morning I had a bowl of Raisin Bran; for lunch I’ll have a salad and the side piece of bread), but I’ve mostly stopped living off of crap. (My wonderful wife said this early on: “If you just stop eating desert foods, you’ll see a huge difference.” Love that woman).
I’m not 100% sure that I feel better, in that magic way dieters speak of. But I feel better that I’m lighter and healthier, if that makes sense. I’m decreasingly tempted by the siren call of the Starbucks snack display—400-calorie, fat-stuffed slabs of pound cake that go down fast and offer fleeting glee.
Will this last? I think. I hope. If nothing else, it’s given me a new goal—and a new feeling of accomplishment.
My goal? 185.
