I suppose it’s time for my two-month check-in. I wish I had more of a drumroll worthy weight loss for you, but as of this morning, I’ve only lost 35 pounds. Thirty-five pounds might be a shitload for the average person but let me assure you – this isn’t even a drop in the bucket.
As an additional kick in the balls – for the first ten days of the month, I simply went up and down the same two pounds. THE. SAME. TWO. POUNDS. Up and down. And up and down. This is infuriating because I’ve been doing what I’m supposed to do. Particularly if you don’t count the many, many drinks I had last week that was followed by two glorious days of heartburn as punishment for drinking vodka.
Sure, some days I haven’t tracked macros in that fucking tyrant My Fitness Pal, which insists on giving me more information than I ever wanted, and there was that night with the vodka but really? I was expecting better. That’s the thing about our expectations, though. We’re always unpleasantly surprised by them.
So about a week and a half ago, I decided I needed to track everything – from black coffee to the pepper in my eggs. I vowed that I will weigh every morsel of food on this nifty digital food scale that I’ve owned for two years and make sure I know exactly what I’m consuming.
There’s something incredibly insulting about having to weigh your food. It’s almost as if you’re saying “I am incapable of making a good, logical decision about how much I should consume for myself. I am powerless and lack any bit of self-control, even when I’m eating tasteless shit so please measure out how much I should eat, oh wise machine.”
There is good news, though. Early last week I had bloodwork done, including a metabolic panel. Believe it or not – I’ve never had any trouble with my cholesterol and I’m NOT diabetic (Ha! Really screwed those who care about the “health” of all fatties) but I did have a few other concerns.
First, after getting a baseball sized mass removed from my thyroid three years ago, along with having a lobectomy, I’ve had the thyroid blues. Nope, I’m not sad. I’ve just got an underachieving, big dumpy assed right side of a thyroid that has to be supplemented with artificial hormones. Coupled with the fact that I’ve got a neck full of masses that have grown back again, albeit all too small to biopsy or be worried about, I’m fighting with that son of a bitch and those levels.
Eight weeks ago, my Calcium level was also high and my Bun/Creatinine was off, as usual. My Vitamin D levels are that of a vampire and along with that prescription of 50,000 units a week, I supplement with Magnesium so I don’t end up in the hospital with an IV. Oh, and my iron dips now and again.
And … drumroll … Every single test is in normal range, even the weird ones which have always been off for me. I’m normal? I won’t let THAT go to my head.
But I did let it go to my head and it seemed like a great day to try sugar-free candy. When you subtract the sugar alcohols and fiber from the carbs – they’re worth a trivial amount of carbohydrates and it was worth it to me to at least try. My husband was being thoughtful and picked me up a bag of sugar-free jelly beans. These are normally my weakness so I was pretty excited.
A serving of these suckers is half of the package but I decided to have the whole package. It was still only a minimal amount of carbs so I figured it was no big deal. And I ate the little mini package while mindlessly watching television. And I didn’t think about it again.
About four hours later, I began to feel an unnatural rumbling in my stomach and I knew something was brewing. I was never affected by WOW chips and their infamous anal leakage in the 90s and the regular Russell Stover’s candies didn’t touch me so I thought I was safe. I assumed that I had a stomach of steel and that I could handle any Malitol cocktail. Uhhh… I stand corrected. The next two hours were spent mostly in the bathroom, desperately texting my friends asking for Gatorade and fan because I was pretty sure that I was dying.
After about a day of shaking, I recovered.
Then … I got my period. Remember PMS? Does that stop happening to everyone in their late thirties or is it just me? Sure, I’m bitchy a few days before the blood-letting (some would argue that I’m bitchy all 30 days a month) but everything seems to happen simultaneously now. I get cramps and bloating THE SAME day I start bleeding. And guess what also happened that day? I was up SIX motherfucking pounds.
Dieting is just a serious of disappointments and occasionally, small victories that you celebrate by eating a cobb salad, which is SUCH BULLSHIT. I’ve skipped all cupcakes, regular candy, pizza and all of the other things that I’d normally want so that I could gain six pounds as punishment for having a uterus?
But just like those dudes who were pretty sure they were going to die anyway in 300, I forge on in this useless death mission.