Haute Couture: Day 8

Eat food.  Not optional.   Bad things always happen when you do not eat.

I had a good day, but truly, my earnestness for this to work within the parameters I’ve set worked against me today.  Yesterday I didn’t eat much but for dinner and it was fine because I didn’t have anything pressing or taxing to engage with (well, I had my writing but as far as I got with it, I probably could have used a little more brain), but today was different.  Today was work and I tried to just sort of work past the hunger on the upgrading email program which took up perhaps more time than it should have.  And it worked fabulously.  More and more my hunger lessens and I don’t notice any sharp pangs hours after I should have.   I made myself get lunch because the co-workers were getting lunch but then I hardly ate it and instead focused on work.

I think I did this despite knowing better because the scale took a little upward bump yesterday and I wanted to fix it.  I know the engine of the body doesn’t work like that.  It needs food to burn fat.   I need energy to think and act and work and do.  Not eating is, quantifiably, and essentially, dumb.  But, perhaps, I needed to drive home and have to pull over twice to realize that this is a process.  This requires commitment, but it also, and most importantly, requires patience.

You can kind of see it.  You can kind of feel it.  The physical changes associated with losing weight are emerging so slowly.  But in half as long, I could put it right back to where it was.  I don’t stand and think about plans for tomorrow, just that I won’t screw up.  So tonight, before bed, I’m making my lunch and I’m also eating an egg.   Just in cases. I don’t want to do this stupidly, haphazardly, unsustainably.  I’ve never wanted that.

So, yes, we’ll eat and we’ll find joy in it.

What else can I offer you but that brief diet summation and my ironclad commitment to my goals?

She had never seen a body, a corpse.   Not even at a funeral.  Willy didn’t go to funerals, mainly, she knew because no one ever invited him, leaving his debts of honor to be paid at the Lucky on cheap beers raised towards the ceiling.  Painted robin’s egg blue with faux off-white clouds, so maybe he pretended he could squint and see God.  As drunk as he got, who knows, maybe he could.

She hadn’t expected the body to hang there like that. Hatchfield Pond was green, layered with muck and algae and the buzzing of flies, but the man slumped in its depths was blue.  Not robin’s egg, but more like the blue of soured milk.

“What happened to him? Who is he?” She finally asked Adrian who was standing stock-still on the other side of pond, not fifty feet away from her.

“Why’re you asking me?” He said, unexpectedly evasive.  Defensive.
“You brought me here.  Why aren’t we calling the police? We have to call the police.”
“I’m standing here until it out.”
“Adrian, you’re not making any sense.”
He wiped his brow, eyes not moving from the fetid body, until she couldn’t help but look, too.

Today: 161.4
Yesterday: 160.4
Goal: 155 by June 15

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