I swear, the scale is a crafty enemy.
Day before yesterday, I rather firmly told myself that I would be happy with any size loss, or maintenance. That all this moping about (or moping but trying to be a little more quiet about it) was unacceptable, and just making things harder for both me and Thomas. I spent two days prepping myself, roleplaying inside my head as to my reactions. I practiced for everything from a no gain-no loss scenario up to a possible .8 pound loss. I even considered a gain a few times...
(Does anyone else have a problem with internal roleplay getting out of hand? I've found myself occasionally practicing what I would say or do if my daughter died in her sleep when she was a baby, or what I would do if Thomas got killed in a car accident, or any number of horrible scenarios. My friend Carol has the same problem. She calls it the Mutant Worrybrain. And the damnest thing about it is that neither of us have ever, ever been adequately prepared for the tragedies that come our way...)
Yesterday morning, I got up and did my little yawn-stretch routine... and I was both astonished and somewhat grouchy about the fact that my undies promptly slid right off my hips into a pile on the floor. The annoying part was that these happen to be my favorite pair; the ones with the little snowboarding penguins on them.
For whatever reason, I became convinced (absolutely convinced, mind you) that I had gained this week. Despite adequate evidence that this was not the case, I began practicing for a gain. I mean, I'd only lost 5.6 pounds in the last 8 weeks, so I don't really have a lot of wiggle room for gaining. It wouldn't take much for me to be right back where I started. And honestly, I don't know that I don't still expect that...
I went about my chores as usual. I did a load of laundry (including previously mentioned pengie undies) and tried not to think about it too much. But I was, even when I was trying not to. I couldn't seem to concentrate on anything yesterday (as evidenced by my half-a-blog post that doesn't seem to come to a satisfying conclusion)...
I watched a new workout video, decided I could not do those little hoppie moves and stuffed it back into its envelope. I did my regular workout, took a shower. I was cleaning in the bedroom a little bit when I found my skecher shoes. I love these shoes, they're entirely cute. I bought them about a year ago, and promptly discovered that I couldn't wear them. The strap that crosses over the foot either wouldn't hold in place, or if I managed to keep it stuck down, I ended up having a huge pressure groove on the top of my foot after an hour. A painfully deep one. I considered throwing them in the trash and then thought I'd see if they still didn't fit. To my surprise, they fit perfectly.
And none of this seemed to be enough. I was panicking badly. I imagined that I'd gained 7 pounds. I actually had a short span of time where I sat on the floor in the bedroom, shaking with a panic attack. I haven't had a panic attack in years. (I used to get them rather frequently, and was actually on medication for them because they interfered with my asthma... I stopped having them - oddly enough - after I had one that was completely justified. My mom and I were doing some shopping and an irate customer came in to the shop, yelling and screaming and pushing people and threatening the manager of the store. It seemed that my imaginary panics were not even close to the real thing... and they sort of went away after that.)
By the time Thomas got home from work, I'd affixed my Lee-Press-On Smile firmly into place. I promised that I'd work on my attitude, and while I wasn't doing a great job internally, no one needed to know that I was in a bad mental place.
We went to the meeting. I'd brought a bottle of water with me - did you know you can't cry while you're drinking? I wonder if this is why British ladies press a cup of tea on anyone who's upset.
Thomas did his weigh in. He's down another .8 pounds, which seems to be his usual.
I got up on the scale.
"Oh! You got your 10 pounds today!"
I wasn't sure what I'd heard... Did she actually say I gained 10 pounds? What? "I what?"
"You're down 4.4 this week," the receptionist said. "Good job."
"Oh. Good." Queen of understatement here. "Holy crap."
I didn't really pay attention to the meeting. The population of the meeting was pretty sparse anyway (it being a holiday) so the long silences after the meeting leader asked a question were particularly obvious.
During the meeting, I was practicing how I will react next week. When I gain it all back.
Argh. What the heck is wrong with me?
I did something right.
Now if I only knew what that was....