Well, holy crap.
The scale got unpacked a bit ago, and in a fit of bravado today, I stepped on it.
I’ve dropped ten pounds in the last four months.
The only notable thing I did that I’ve managed to stick to was switch to Lean Cuisine for lunch maybe four days out of five (on average. I still get cold pizza or go out with friends fairly regularly.) James still cooks the rib-sticky dinners, and starving myself is just not in my nature. I never met a diet I wanted to make the acquaintence of.
The particularly amusing thing is that my exercise regimen fell completely by the wayside with the move. I had shed five pounds, then we moved, and I stopped keeping track. I haven’t been on the exercise bike for like two months. So in the last two months, I have managed to lose five pounds, due to a dreadfully lacklustre diet and the exercise inherent in packing, unpacking (not insignificant) and gardening (not at all insignificant!) and going up and down a flight of stairs fifty times a day (the significance of which I’m unclear on.)
I’d known I’d lost a coupla pounds at the weigh-in at the doctor’s, but since I couldn’t remember what it had been a year ago, I wasn’t sure how much.
So I feel good about that, even if I’m not quite sure how it happened. Which is much better than gaining ten pounds and not being sure how it happened, believe me.