I got home from church tired, hungry and in want of a square meal. I'm cooking roast chicken tonight, however, and had intended to have salad. I really wanted something hot and comforting to eat.
It's just as well I didn't have a pizza in the freezer, because I'd have eaten it. As it is, I had scrambled eggs. A dab of butter for cooking, none on the toast. I don't know which, pizza or eggs, has more calories and I don't care, because that's not how I reckon food (though I do check the backs of packets sometimes, just to know how much I'm saving by being shocked into not eating the food in question) - but it must be better to eat a couple of eggs once in a while, than a bought pizza loaded with uninteresting cheese, which comes out of the oven with a puddle of grease on top.
This whole thing is so boring. I feel very disheartened. I can see why people go on crash diets, because quick results are something to be pleased about. And indeed, some real rigour at the start of a diet, while you are full of determination and need the spur of that first couple of pounds lost, is not a bad plan. I know I'll keep up this diet, pretty well, forever. Give or take the occasional sausage roll or chocolate biscuit, that's fine with me. I accepted at the start, not least because the doctor instructed me to be content with losing at the rate of a stone a year, that this is a long haul. But, whilst I didn't argue with him, it's very hard to manage that. If I don't take it pretty seriously, it's too easy to think that 'just a little' won't hurt.
I'm not being that rigorous. I'm keeping that for if Plan A doesn't work. But I'm bored already, after nearly four months, of thinking about food all the time. And I can't help it.
A few weeks ago, I was encouraged that I felt a bit thinner. But now I'm used to that, and already impatient that I am not nearer the size that is (poor foolish Z) what I think of as the 'real me'. My waist is smaller and so are my thighs. But not small enough for me, and I'm nowhere near dropping a dress size, although my clothes are becoming looser.
I'm complaining about nothing, I know. I'm already worrying about the next time I weigh myself, in case I'm no smaller. But the purpose of this blog, to some extent anyway, is to whinge. Sorry. I don't do it anywhere else, or to anyone else. This blog is where I don't treat triumph and disaster just the same.