I've been sticking to The Diet. I've been GOOD. I mean saintly good. No-tarnish-on-the-halo-my-wings-are-bigg
Just like a woman, right?
I might turn her in for a younger model, now that I'm thinking about it.
I know I'm losing. I'm at least losing inches. I've lost 4 1/4 inches from various places measured with a tape (except for my hips, because they're apparently effing intractable on the matter of weight loss, as if they want to hold on to the curves), my clothes are fitting much better (I could get the size eights on and buttoned, though I wouldn't wear them in public, or, you know, if I needed to breathe), so WHY WON'T THE FREAKING SCALE MOVE?
Bad Fricking Words. BAD ones. THE WORST ones.
Come ON, man! Throw me a bone, here! I'm thisclose to getting on the elliptical and going until the damn scale decides to let go. (Interesting note: One entire episode of Supernatural = 750 calories burned. Also, I had a dream about Dean Winchester where all we did was cuddle. Evidently I'm a faithful wife even in my dreams. Talk about your frustration.)
So, yeah. Scale is a pain in the ass. Carrie is frowny.
I'll return you back to your regularly scheduled friend's list, now.