If I could bottle a Saturday night feeling into a bottle, I’d be the richest woman the world over. Of course, that’s probably what you’d call a good buzz but I think there’s a bit of nuance to be had here.
A Saturday night feeling is uniquely secure. It’s this moment by moment reassurance that you get one more sleepy morning, one more day of being a private wreck, one more day where the air can get you because you’re not platen over with masks and personae and fakery. One more day to walk around with your heart unbuttoned.
I checked the scale this morning and it suggested on the first go and with minor verification that I had lost 2 pounds this week. This adds up to five pounds lost for a girl who has had a fair amount of pizza in her last five weeks of dieting. That’s…exciting. It is not, of course, so exciting that it feels worthy of some sort of food-based reward. It is not so great, five pounds, that I want to start trumpeting “I have this new perfect diet plan – eat pizza and lose weight!”
Instead, it feels, really precarious and odd. Like I must have goofed up somewhere. I’ve been reading a few different MyFitnessPal threads and articles. Getting ideas like what can I eat to get more potassium (which I apparently care about when they show it at 21% in red) and then, of course, reading things that suggest maybe I should allow myself more food. More calories, anyway.
And immediately, my brain starts to glom onto that. I hear devilish little purrs in my ear. This means a bit more butter, a bit more popcorn, a bit more cream. This means you could eat, really, whatever. You don’t want be to starving yourself…restricting TOO much…you don’t want to set up a new bad relationship with food.
Ugh, of course I don’t want any of that. But I also don’t want to suddenly not know what the hell is happening and where the deep end of the pool is.
I know that I get so terrified of breaking the rules I end up blowing them off spectacularly when I set a toe outside the line. In for a penny, in for a pound cake. It’s odd that this is working. I feel…fed. It’s 1200-1400 calories and then I try and exercise back my overage. Right now, I feel a bit hungry, and I’m trying to attend to that as it crops up by tracking first, but it’s almost 11p.m. and I can probably just get some sleep and eat in morning.
I don’t know. This is a lot of minutiae cluttering my mind on a first benchmark reached celebratory sort of day. It’s, in its own way, resistance. It’s a desire for perfection even in struggle. The worry that maybe I can’t lose 2 pounds next week again. The worry that everything is fluky and I’m going to suddenly have that weight back. The idea that I want to succeed at this whole year-long process so well that I can get it done in a week or a month. That sense that I need to do what is right and what works and what is documented and hit those marks and then I can forget all of it. The fear that I am losing weight – at some level, at some pace – and if it continues, I will lose control of it, but more than that, I won’t have it lurking as this unchecked to-do. That it wouldn’t be an excuse. That it would free me and that freedom is downright petrifying.
None of this matters at all.
I am not changing tactics until the tactics don’t work or I find myself unable to follow them out of excessive, uncomfortable hunger. The rest is just me trying to build a case to get out of doing this and the court is not hearing that case. We’re not letting that one get to trial.
AND LIVE FROM MY BEDROOM, IT’S SATURDAY NIIIIIGHT!