The number one question I’ve been asked and the number one thing I’ve managed to avoid discussing…
The My-weight, My-being, The-number-I-define-myself-through-each,-and-every-morning post.
My Weight. My Body. My Size.
You: Did you get fat in DR?
I gained THREE pounds. O.k, ‘three’ shouldn’t have been capitalized there, because ya know what? I’m o.k with that. It was incredibly hard to eat healthy in DR as I couldn’t touch fruit, lettuce, or anything remotely healthy because of the water, which meant it came down to portion control, which I officially SUCK at, especially when it’s buffet style.
I also drank boat loads of alcoholic drinks (see previous post about me being *that* girl), which equaled millions of calories in that department, luckily(?) I hung out with resort boy most of the time, which meant I didn’t eat that much in front of him (because umm hello? phobia of eating in front of guys, ya… I know).
I will, however, mention this; last year I went to Cuba and nearly every single photo I despised of myself from that trip, like, I absolutely HATED them all, whereas this trip I actually had to ‘search’ for the worst ones, and I came up with these. (Clockwise: Manatee-Frolicking-In-The-Water, The-Baby-Less-Bump, The-Beluga-Whale, and finally The-Look-At-The-Hippo-Running-Through-The-Water.) Not TERRIBLE, but by no means good/decent/ok.
My current weight (as of this morning) was 165, because since I’ve been home, I’ve gained a pound (why? emotional eating because no boy = lots of food, there! I said it. Whoa).
165 is my Goddamn magic number. I think if I started a 2nd blog I’d called it, “fuck you one sixty five,’ as that’s obviously the number my body settles on with a half ass exercise and eating routine (aka my life).
I’m by no means giving up, I’m going to keep stumbling forward, fighting the battle, trying my best not to eat the cookie or pizza, but instead gnaw on the celery stick.
I’m back to 1,100 calories/day.