For a year, I've been working my butt off to eat right and exercise. The sum total of my one year's worth of exercise has been a loss of ten pounds. I was feeling pretty proud of that until my husband decided to give up carbs in January to lose weight and has lost something in the neighborhood of 30 lbs.
I understand that he's a man, for one, and doesn't take immunosuppresive drugs that slow down his metabolism for another, but it's not fair dangit! I killed myself for a year to lose ten pounds, and I miss cookies!
Okay, tantrum over. On the brighter side, I'm healthier. A year ago I couldn't climb a flight of stairs. Now I can. My friend Ellen and I took up tennis, and I wore this heart monitor where the alarm would go off constantly, and now we can do a good round before I have to sit and rest. I've accomplished things I never dreamed I could. I shouldn't say that. I never stopped dreaming. I refuse to give up. I can't give up. There's too much in the world to do.
So when I stand on that scale, and it tells me my body fat is too high, I just sigh, and think, "At least I can walk up stairs." My trainer tells me not to think about that stuff, but just to think about how far I've come. He's right, of course, but I'll probably still sigh when that ++ sign comes up on my scale.
Have a lupie day.