Tax season has a way of taking my best intentions and smashing them to bits. This is how potato chips become part of a balanced breakfast - they sneak in when I'm in full stress mode and I don't notice until I've gained five pounds. But, now tax season is over and I can no longer hold onto the excuse of climbing back on the weight watchers wagon after Easter. Suddenly it is after Easter and there is a Cadbury egg mocking me from its perch on my counter.
I swear that thing has eyes.
All in all, the diet thing has been going well. I didn't think I had it in me. Well, that's not true. I knew I had it in me. I had too much in me. That was the problem.
But, never one to be daunted by a lofty goal (Ha! Who am I kidding?) or the fact that I hate diet food about as much as I would hate slugging back a bucket of cold earthworms, David and I took the plunge. It went like this:
Bonnie (the night before we began our weight loss regime): For my last act of gluttony, I'm going to melt a plate of cheese and eat the whole thing. What are you going to do?
David: I was thinking about drinking that bottle of magic shell.
Two weeks in:
David: I'm going to weigh myself before I pee in the morning. That way I can save the water weight for a week when I haven't lost very much.
Three weeks in:
Bonnie: I feel like Scarlett O'Hara, except I'm standing on a hillside with a single carrot in my hand saying, "I'll never be full again!"
Four weeks in:
David: I had to use my pee weight this morning.
And so it goes. We're down a combined total of 40-something pounds. We still want to bury our faces in a dozen chocolate chip cookies. I think that urge is about as easy to suppress as it is to convince a wide-awake-at-3-a.m. toddler that he really is sleepy.
Oh, crud. Now I want a cookie and a nap.
Darn power of suggestion.