Ants in the pants

So, Sunday. Weigh in day following a week off from the holiday. Did I stay on plan for two weeks? Yes. Did I work my @ss off on that treadmill everyday? Yes. Did I have a nice weight loss after stepping on the scale? Um, no. Did I choke the weigh in lady? No. 

Just a tiny gain. Teeny tiny. Two tenths of a pound. Nothing to get upset about. Right? 

So why did I feel like crap? 

I am thisclose to hitting my 70 pound mark, and I want my stinking sticker. That's why. 

I even worked out on days I didn't really want to work out. Days I felt kinda crappy. Days when I would have much rather lay on the couch and grumble and eat chocolate. Every day. 

So when I saw my WW leader and she asked, quite innocently, "how's it going?" I stuck my tongue out at her and blew a raspberry. Like a two year old. 

Of course she asked what the problem was. I knew she would. And I told her I was just a little bummed because I hoped for a bit of a loss this week. 

It seems my body is getting quite comfortable at this weight, she suggested. It'll take a while to budge but it will come off. She reminded me how far I've come. She reminded me that my body is getting smaller, even though that stupid number is not. She understood that it can get quite frustrating sometimes to be pedaling and pedaling (or walking on the stupid treadmill) and feeling like you're never going to get there. 

"But you're doing everything you're supposed to be doing," she said. "You look great, you feel good, right?"

Right. 

"Alright then, stop worrying so much." 

You're already there. 

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