It Seemed Like A Good Idea At The Time...

Today was pretty unpleasant for me. Nothing happened, specifically, but rather a cluster bomb of twaddle, hormone-induced rage, and an inability to move without groaning after two excellent workouts. By excellent, I mean, they would be magnificent for someone who had some semblance of being in shape. I, by the way, am not that person. (Is smooshy a shape? Because if so, I totally retract my earlier statement.)

I should have known better to step on that stupid scale this morning. That started it. First of all, this is the very last week that I should even consider pressing a toe onto a scale. Not so much as my pinkie toe. Just like every other inappropriate weighing times, I can never seem to help myself. Eat a pound of chocolate at two o'clock in the morning, or binge-eat Apple Jacks in the middle of the night? The following morning seems like the perfect time to see how my weight is doing, don't you think?

I've had three sodas in a month and a half. If left to my own devices, I would drink one soda after the next until I floated away in a sea of lively carbonation. I've upped my H2O intake; I've tried to make better eating choices. I finally hit the gym for the first time in months. I attempted to run for the first time in I can't even remember how long. Never mind the fact that my shins acted like I'd never gone for a run, like EVER. I still went. Is it too much to ask that the numbers on the scale, at the very least, stay in the same general locale, or drop a bit here and there? I'm just asking that they stop climbing like they're trying to scale Everest, for the love.

Clearly the number today wasn't ideal. Combine this with feeling the need to swear whenever my legs move, being unable to locate my coat (or my wireless headphones, or my son's Moon Journal, or my keys, or my youth), not having time to fix myself the healthy breakfast I undeniably need, and this morning may have gotten off to a rocky start.

There may have been some outbursts. Perhaps a few doors were slammed. It's a possibility that full-on screaming tantrums were thrown. On the way to Bible Study. In the best possible nice Baptist girl way, of course. *Insert eye roll here for emphasis*

I then spent some glorious (yes, that's sarcasm, for those of you who don't know me well) time at Chuck E. Cheese with two legitimately adorable 4-year-olds, a good friend, and my mom. It actually would have been great, had my overall attitude not already been in the toilet, swimming around with my hopes of maintaining a diet.

If the scale is already being a complete tool, why not help it out by eating at Chuck E. Flipping Cheese. If you've already eaten a load of pizza, then why not have an ice cream cone while you're there? If you've already had a load of pizza and an ice cream cone, and you hurt everywhere, why not shrug your shoulders and agree when someone offers to grab Freddy's for dinner? Most importantly, if you're already eating super-de-duper nutritious Freddy's, then by all means, drink a large (because a medium just won't suffice) Mountain Dew. Mmm mmm good.

I'm hoping that tomorrow will be a better day. In fact, I'm afraid I must insist on it. That leaves me twenty-six minutes to finish this one off with a bang. If that scale so much as whispers an invitation to step on it tomorrow, I'm throwing it out the window. Wait, no... that's not right. Better day, better day, better day *muttered under her breath*. I will, ummmm... hide it until I can get myself together, NOT step on it, NOT jump on it from a height sure to destroy it permanently, and NOT break any other items in our house.