Twenty seven weeks out from surgery, and here are the numbers I care about:
- Weight: 278
- Blood Sugar: 102
Two pounds is great! Last Saturday I was in a two-million-dollar home on the water in Long Beach and I wound up dipping into the (thoroughly nasty) Chex Mix about four or five times. I was talking about it with my shrink yesterday, and she asked me what my emotional state was, and I decided it was mild social anxiety. Kinda didn’t know anyone there, kinda wasn’t too comfortable, kinda made a bunch of assumptions about the other people there, which was totally unfair (probably accurate though), and all that resulted in low-grade social anxiety, and I medicated with dog shit Chex Mix. In the past, it would’ve been an entire pizza, so fuck it.
Hey this is kinda cool. Last week, after hitting 280, that was enough to put me in a lower BMI. Check this out:
There was a time when I was up there in the purple. Now I’m merely “overweight.” Kind of a weird thing to be stoked about, but stoked I am. Stoked enough to talk like Yoda (#TalkLikeYoda). Oh, and yesterday I went to the gym and picked up my membership (I signed up after Thanksgiving…shut up, I’ve been sick) before heading to work. I swear to god by the time I post another one of these I’ll have gone there and done stuff at least once. Baby steps.
I’m happy. Last week I whined about not being back in work mode yet. I did some thinking about it, and Work Brain hasn’t kicked back in because the world hasn’t required it. I’ve had a ton of free time, and no one breathing down my neck, and this has allowed me to fuck around as much as I want. This week I’m refusing to do any of the fun stuff until I’ve put in a few hours work every day (on whatever). It’s working. I’m typing this in my office right now, and I don’t have an office hour until Monday. I will force my brain back into productivity no matter what. And if that doesn’t work, I’m gonna try cocaine.
Here, have a graphic:
