Weighed in tonight at "group therapy w/ grandmas" and, after two weeks of running on schedule, adding extra heavy-duty work-outs, and cutting back on baked goods.... I've lost one of the four pounds I should have.
I suppose substituting cocktails for sweets was bound to sabotage my efforts. Too bad, I was really getting used to them. The two unopened bottles of Bacardi (okay fine, one of them I opened yesterday) are calling my name after tonight's grueling sweat-fest.
The one slice of chocolate cake leftover from Monsoon's birthday party is looking all too good, as well. Do you think I'll be able to carry it all the way from the counter to the garbage can without smashing it into my mouth? I mean, the lid will have to come off... I'll smell it... some of the fudgey icing might slide down my fingers anyway and what's a girl to do with that? If I'm going to lick the worst (calorie-wise) part, I might as well just eat a hunk.
You're right. I'm a liar. I ate half of it while I typed. The gooey frosting-covered keyboard is possibly one of the many things wrong with my laptop. On the bright side, there's another whole week before next weigh-in.
Hello, treadmill, old foe.
Six Word Saturday #420
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