My laissez-faire relationship with the gym continues. I’m still going. Twice a week, most weeks (though school holidays proved a challenge). And, according to my ‘measurements’, it’s making a difference. One centimetre smaller here, two centimetres down there. The scales, however, have not shifted. Not one bit.
I know that scales are not the be-all and end-all. We are more than what we weigh. But, jeez Louise, it’s hard to stay motivated when nothing at all is going on down there.
So, having decided that I must be going horribly wrong on the eating front, I signed up for a six-week Fitness Challenge. I was weighed and measured all over again. I was despatched home with a box of protein bars (er, cardboard anyone?) and a pile of literature, including food diaries, recipes, fabulously inspiring ‘real stories’. I was powered up. Ready to go.
And then I went to Sydney and ate my body weight in pizza and polenta battens with gorgonzola sauce (I’m sorry, but Oh. My. God). Washed down with a river of red wine. Followed by Saturday night out as well. Another day, another river of red wine. Then the football on Sunday. Billabongs and chips.
Let’s just say I’m not off to a flying start.
I’m looking on the bright side. The only way to go from here is up, right? Which will hopefully lead to a little ‘down’ movement on the scales.
Six weeks. It’s all possible.