There is no sense in pretendin'
Your eyes give you give away
Something inside you is feelin' like I do
We've said all there is to say
Baby, breakdown, go ahead give it to me
Breakdown, honey take me through the night
Breakdown, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers
So, I made it nearly a year before having a complete and total meltdown about this whole lifestyle thing.
Last year, I shipped out chocolates and cookies to a few of my warcraft guild members (I made tons of cookies and chocolates last year, and I really like making chocolates. It's fun and sort of artsy and I feel creative and talented while I'm doing it...) and this year, talking with one of those people, he offered me a rather large sum of cash to make gift boxes for his employees. He's a lawyer and has a crapton of legal assistants and whatnot... so, despite some misgivings, I found myself dragging out the chocolate molds and the melting wafers...
I made several batches of chocolate without too much trouble. I counted 2-3 points a day for various amounts of licking my fingers and really wasn't feeling too bad about the whole thing...
And then came...
Thursday, it rained so hard that you'd have expected to see Noah somewhere out there with his cubit-stick, measuring wood... we didn't get in our long walk. Darcy was being a society-menace... actually, she's really not, but my god, the girl can drive me up the wall. I'm really not a very good mom... it doesn't take more than about 2 "Why" questions before I start
I'm trying hard to finish up these boxes to get everything shipped on Monday so I can spend KC's money with impunity and Darcy's being a serious pest. She's not happy about the fact that I won't let her eat the cookies and fudge and chocolates that I'm making, and I've had to tell her five times in the last 20 minutes that these are for someone else and she can't have any...
When it just happened.
Went 'round the bend.
Flipped my lid.
I gave Darcy three or four pieces of chocolate and screamed at her to GET OUT OF MY KITCHEN! And then proceeded to snarf the rest of the row myself.
I do not know how much fudge I ate.
I know I threw a few pieces down the disposal as soon as I realized what I was doing. And Darcy took a few pieces before fleeing to her bedroom.
An 8 x 11 tray makes ~100 pieces of fudge. I know I didn't eat more than one entire row. So, at the worst, at least 2 pieces, and at most, nine pieces.
I didn't decide to throw myself down the stairs, so to speak. I was good the rest of the day. I compensated. I wrote it down. I estimated on the heavy side.
I spent most of Friday feeling like a complete Oinker. I was snippy most of the day. I worked up a good sweat when we went for our Friday walk, pumping my arms and stepping hard down on the pavement.
And then, Saturday came, and it was just... gone. I was still a little astonished by what I'd done, but my jeans still fit. I don't look any different than I did on Thursday. I didn't wait til Monday to get back on the wagon; I went back on right away. I wrote it down. I compensated.
When I show a gain this week, I think I'll be okay with that. And if I lose anyway, I'm not going to give myself the excuse that I can act like this all the time.
Surprisingly enough, I'm okay with it. I did what I did, and while I don't want to make a regular habit of it, it's not the end of the world.
I think that's a non-scale victory.
I accept what I did without beating myself up about it for too long.
Good for me.