Salt in a Wound

The holidays and the weeks leading up to them have been rough. Not in the way you might think -- I haven't been gobbling up cookies or other goodies. I haven't been neglecting my workouts. I haven't even had a cocktail. All I can figure is that it must be a sodium issue. Out of necessity I have been eating way more processed foods than my body is accustomed to. And instead of countering that by drinking more water, like a person of normal intelligence would, I'm drinking less.

I am puffy and gross and my jeans don't fit the way I want them too.

And the real food issues are in the immediate future.

There is a part of me that thinks looking puffy and gross over the holidays -- when, I'll admit, I was sort of looking forward to seeing people I haven't seen in a year in a new body -- is some sort of karmic retribution. I was cocky. I was proud. I was even a little bit vain. Maybe a lot. What better reality check than to not be able to zip my jeans without doing a little dance?

I had gotten to a place in this journey -- emotionally -- where I was able to focus on the positive changes I've made. For the past two days, all I can really see is how far there is left to go.

I AM stronger.

But I'm still really fat.

Really, really fat.

The cheekbones that, I'll admit, I vainly admired have faded into puffy oblivion.

AND YET,

I know that, given the situations that I've been in, I've made the best choices I could possibly be expected to make. Will I be able to do so for the next two days? Feeling down on myself and disgusting? Man, I hope so.

When I'm home and the traveling part is over I can drink water like a boss to flush this out. I can sit in a steam room. Heck, I can do sit-ups in a steam room.

This is not the end of the journey. I've come too far (though you wouldn't know it to look at my lumpy-ass self today) to let a little roadblock stop me.

But it would be a lot easier to pass by cookies and treats if I still felt fierce and hot. Hercules makes better choices than the Stay-Puff Marshmallow Man.

But maybe it was time for a little humility. Maybe it was time for a reality check. Maybe it's time to see if I can't knock out some push-ups on my mom's squeaky floor before people start waking up and making cinnamon buns. Maybe it's time to stop feeling sorry for myself and power through this the best I can.

I'm disappointed in myself. I feel like I'm following all the rules and I'm still losing the game. (But not, semi-ironically) the weight.

Christmas, man.

Humbug.