Tuesday was weighing day. Eager to get on the scales, I jumped straight out of bed and almost ran to the bathroom. The anticipation began, accompanied by a virtual drumroll in my head, waiting for the results of the last seven days. After the awaited Beep-Beep-Beep the scales showed me my fat percentage (ouch!) and my loss of 600g. Sure, I was a little bit disappointed, but according to WW a pound a week is perfect. A perfect result I suppose, seeing as I was out for meals with work twice last week, followed by a girly weekend drinking wine, champagne and eating pizza whilst DH was away in Munich. I sinned for a day not counting points properly, but returned to my diet-diary the next day.
My disappointment at the mini-loss confirmed the fact that I am terribly impatient. I like things to go my way, when and how I want them. But, I guess I’ll have to get used to the ups-and-downs of the diet journey and become a little bit more relaxed and patient. My body isn’t a machine. I didn’t put the weight on in a month or two, but over a period of five years, so I can’t expect to change it back like a scene from Harry Potter by waving my carrot sticks and shouting “Wingardium lipidosa! “
The magical thing about the minus 600g was it brought me to a total weight loss of 4kg.