With all the new shiny snow outside I have to find exercise that inspires me that I can do inside. There is a very special something about watching Buffy while practicing your kickboxing. There's an innate ROARness to it. The faint notion that if you kicked and boxed for every second of all seven seasons you might end up with Sarah Michelle Gellar's body. Faint, I said, very faint. It gives me hope though. Maybe if I added the five seasons of Angel it would be a bit more solid.
I'm not so thrilled with the upward mobility of my scale numbers at the moment, 169. It's not a good way to start a month full of eating when I want to end no more than 170. We have an open house at work this week and it occurs to me now that I should have volunteered to bring salad instead of cupcakes. If you pretend to want to be a baker though it's better to actually bake stuff and make people wax rhapsodic about your frosting rather than make salad. It's also, you know, completely up to me what and how much of something I eat. I can test a cupcake. I can also cut it up and test a small piece instead of a whole. I can also pack a salad for lunch so I'm not tempted to eat 37 cookies for a mid-day meal. There are plenty of things I can do to keep myself on track if I choose to plan and think ahead. In addition to exercising like crazy.
I am dedicating December to things I can do, instead of things I can't. I can't be Sarah Michelle Gellar by January 26th but I can make choices I'm happy with. That sounds so lame. I already re-wrote this post after publishing because UGH I just feel pathetic all over. I did some scale math adding five pounds to all of last years weights and goals and I just can't figure it out to my satisfaction. Last year today I posted 175 which I now know to be 180. At that point I thought I had 20 pounds to lose, 155 brings me to the top of healthy for my height. Now I'm 169 and I guess that means that I have 14 pounds to lose to be a healthy BMI. I know that in fact those numbers are all screwed up and I actually lost 11 pounds and not 6 but it still pisses me off. I have this fear that I'm always going to be the person whining about those last 10 pounds only it will be 20 and therefor twice as annoying. I can't seem to help being annoyed by the numbers today, especially as I had to return some comically small size ten jeans to the Gap last weekend. The original pair still fit as they always have but it still makes me feel like a fat ass that those had to go back. Fat ass, can't help it. What a statement to sum up exactly how I don't want to feel about myself.