Master Yoda would be so disappointed.
“Do or do not. There is no try.”
This week was ‘do not’. Frankly, I’m surprised I only gained as little as I did. This diet isn’t kicking my butt, no, it’s curb stomping me: A full-course smorgasbord of whoopin’.
That’s OK, though. I’ve got three weeks (less a day – my final weigh-in will be Thanskgiving Monday) and just eight pounds to lose if I’m going to break 190. So here’s what I’m going to do: Any week in which I fail to lose at least a pound, I will wear a T-shirt for the following week with “Don’t feed me” printed on the front (this is new, so this week doesn’t count).
I won’t wear it at home – I need time to wash the thing – and there may be some work assignments that demand dressier attire (although I’ll still have the shirt on underneath). But having to tell all of you I’ve gained weight when I should have lost clearly hasn’t been motivation enough. I need the potential for good old-fashioned humiliation to get me moving and starving.
A minimum of a pound a week will drop me below 195 – only halfway to my initial goal of 40 pounds – but I’ll be shooting for 189.9.
So three more columns. Would I do it again? God no. I mean, I’m glad I’ve shed a few pounds, and it has made me feel physically better. But knowing I’ll be held accountable for my weight every week just sucks. Think of all the ice cream I should have eaten this summer but didn’t? The pints of Hoegaarden, the loaves of banana bread, the cookies, forlorn and neglected…I get choked up just thinking about it.
But don’t worry, garlic fingers, Thanksgiving will be here soon.
This is not an advice column. Please consult a medical expert or nutritionist for sound dietary advice. Eric Sparling is an Amherst Daily News reporter, and former senior editor at Oxygen, a women’s fitness magazine.