I’ve been bad lately.
No, wait, let me rephrase that, because that implies I’ve been doing something wrong. I’ve been less strict. Now that I’m getting down near my goal weight, I’ve allowed myself to be a little less fanatical about my calorie counting. I’m not having Thanksgiving dinner every day, but if I go over by a few calories here or there, I’m not going to beat myself up over it. It would take weeks of sustained gluttony of epic proportions to undo what I’ve done so far, and I’ve got myself disciplined enough that that’s not going to happen.
Not that I haven’t allowed myself a binge or two here and there. A day at EPCOT. A friend’s birthday gathering. Days I knew I went over my limit. But I just counted until I got close to my daily goal, then just stopped worrying about it. Maybe I made myself walk a little longer and eat a little less the next day to make up for it, but there was no guilt, no depression, no sense I’d ruined anything. I’m just getting to the point where I’m going to move from losing to maintaining, and rather than flipping the switch from 1600 to 2300 calories a day overnight, I’m easing myself into it. I figure that way I won’t go crazy with my newly found caloric freedom and make a pig out of myself.
Now comes the hard part, the part I’ve secretly been dreading: working out. I’ve lost the weight, but now I’ve got to tone what’s left, and that means something more exercise-y than simply walking. And I can’t stand monotonous repetition on giant metal machines. But if I can make myself walk mile after mile and deny myself beer and wings for almost a year now, I guess I can force myself onto the Nautilus every now and then.
Besides, working out need protein, and protein means meat. I’m totally on board with that.