So Here I'm Sitting in My Car at the Same Old Stoplight

I didn’t lose any weight this week.

I thought I’d stew about this all day, all the while craving foods I rarely eat any more. After all, the last time this happened to me – right around this exact week last year, in fact – that was it for that diet. I was just about to head to Turin for a month to cover the Winter Olympics, and the gain plus the hunger plus the stress plus the hours plus the crappy food in the media centers plus the cheese polenta at the restaurants (ohmygosh the cheese polenta!) meant I fell off the wagon. By the time I got through the snowdrift, the wagon was long gone.

But at the moment, I am surprisingly OK. This morning I was angry, but just briefly. I thought about the unfairness of it all: Of all the events I successfully navigated this week, and of the fact that it’s been 2 and a half months and the loss still isn’t visible. I briefly blamed it on the chocolate chunk cookie I had, which I know cannot derail an entire week of good effort. But I didn’t seriously think about eating. Instead I thought – in my best sarcastic voice: And how is eating going to solve this problem?

I’d gotten up a bit too late to get to the gym, but too early to leave for work. So I read a bit of Jude the Obscure and did a bit of non-blog, non-work writing. By the time I left the house, I felt fine. (I went to the gym during lunch, by the way.)

I keep poking at myself to see if I want to binge, kind of like the way you constantly probe the spot in your mouth where it hurts.

Prod. Pull bottom lip between teeth. But still… nothing.