I'm back. Defeated. Dejected. Depressed. And still weighing 235 pounds. I'd hoped that by now I'd weigh...200 - maybe 190. I expected to be back to at least a real size 16, maybe even a (large) 14.
Just like every other time, I crashed and burned. Life got in the way. I started wearing my hair straight. Work got busy. Everything else became a priority. And well, ice cream tastes good, and working out is hard.
So now I'm back. And not so gung ho. I'm actually pretty apathetic. Because although I want to lose weight. I NEED to lose weight. I don't know if I have it in me. I was in a tele-seminar yesterday and the facilitator asked: What can you commit to? And I don't know what I can commit to. I hate working out...well I do now that I'm huge and out of shape and am so far away from the exciting place of lifting so much the guys at the gym are impressed. I love food. I love everything about it - watching it being cooked, cookign it, talking about it, learning about it, reading about it. How could I possibly become one of those boring no oil, no butter, no salt, everything held on the side people?
So I'm back. Not sure what that means. Yet.