Three weeks in. I drove to work early this morning. I passed the Wawa I would often stop at to load up on the fatty, salty goods—breakfast sandwiches, hoagies, chocolate cookies, etc. I didn't stop and, for the first time in a while, I didn't feel that deep longing and regret and shame and... grief, I guess. I was cool. I just drove right on by. Four hours later, I ate some rice and beans and clementines and felt satisfied. As opposed to stuffed and sad and tired like I would after two sausage-egg-cheese-on-biscuit sandwiches and chocolate milk.
I read a short reddit post today in which OP claimed that people found out that he was counting calories and accused him of having an ED. He made the point that the people saying this were nowhere to be found when he was stuffing his face with junk food and desserts and liters of soda every weekend. I thought about what I wrote last night, my curiosity about whether I should be weary of what I'm doing to my body right now. The post reaffirmed my confidence in the goal—hitting calorie targets, losing weight at a healthy speed, using moderation when it comes to what I eat, including the moderation (i.e. not beating myself up when I have an extra slice every once in a while).
It was another day of not really being sure what my calorie totals were. I only have ~300 calories for lunch so I was walking into my parents' Memorial Day Weekend BBQ with like 1400 calories left. I had a burger on a bun, no cheese. I had some guacamole, and a scoop each of two other Aldi dips, so that includes like four small tortilla chips and two Ritz crackers. There were some baked beans in maple BBQ sauce that were probably higher in calories than I would've liked but I only had maybe 1/4 cup (can't resist the beans!). The only wildcard was a broccoli-onion-bacon salad that my mom made. She's an old WeightWatchers pro, so I had some confidence that the dressing was a low-cal yoghurt based thing, and wasn't too concerned about it. I can't fucking imagine that this all totals to over 1400 calories. If it does, then I'll just never fucking know about it, and I won't care either.
The obsessing about this kind of thing can be healthy as long as the obsessing doesn't impede living your life normally otherwise. I'm thinking about it deeply because I've tasked myself with writing about it. I'm not gonna toss and turn in bed tonight wondering whether the dressing was actually mayo-based. Who gives a shit. I'm feeling good. Keep it going.
Pam weighed the cat today. She weighed exactly the amount that I have lost so far. And the cat is overweight!
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