You're Gonna Carry That Weight a Long Time

This losing weight shit is no fucking fun. I'm coming up on the end of my 9th week now, and if that doesn't sound like a long time, you've probably never had to try very hard to lose weight. The worst part is that it just doesn't seem like you're making any progress at all for long stretches of time. That scale just doesn't seem to budge a micrometer. And then it does. So I've lost 22 pounds in the past 9 weeks, which doesn't seem too bad. And would seem even better if I didn't have a very long way to go. I'm hoping to drop another 38 pounds if possible. It's a little bit daunting, though.

I have found, however, that paying too much attention to what the scale says is an excellent way to kill your motivation and put yourself into a position where you're tempted to say to hell with it or at least to do a little cheating. (Which, in my experience, usually leads to a little more cheating, which then leads to a lot of cheating, which then leads to I didn't want to do it anywaying.) My body, on the other hand, has provided me with some nice feedback from pretty early on.

First I noticed that my rings were starting to fall off of my fingers. Then I noticed that I had more belt sticking out of my buckle than previously, leather just dangling down sexily. And I began to notice that I not only had more energy, and that I not only was looking forward to riding the stationary bike, but that I actually felt good.

I mean good.

Which made me realize that I haven't felt good in a very long time.

So. 22 pounds down. Let's go.

And by the way . . . I just finished up an exercise session and when I got dressed I thought, Man, this belt is dangling down so far that it's kind of vulgar. So I thought I'd see if Joe had an extra belt in his closet.

I found one. It was labelled "36 inches." 

Not quite ready to show my bare stomach yet, though. Bate your breath, girls.