Like many families in America, my husband's extended clan embarked this week on a "Biggest Loser" competition. Ours, semi-affectionately dubbed "The Great Lard Off," began Sunday at midnight. I threw myself into the fray with delight, dedication and optimism. I could do it this time! I would do it! The first two days were a breeze. I exercised like Michael Phelps. (Except that I drank gallons of water rather than immersing myself in it.) I ate like Mary-Kate Olsen. I even picked up a few "good karma" points by begging/bullying my husband into joining us, and then a few more for setting up a private blog for the competition. (If you think I'm going to tell any of you how much I weigh, you're dreaming.)
I hit my first speed bump on the road to physical fitness yesterday. Possibly it was a pothole. At any rate, I went to Chili's for lunch with a group who drank Coke and root beer and ordered fried chicken, creamy Alfredo, steak fajitas smothered with sour cream, and -- get this -- babyback ribs, loaded mashed potatoes and french fries. On the same plate. (I practically swooned.) I drank plain water (not knowing the calorie-count of a lemon slice) and picked at the "Guilt-free Salmon Plate." It consisted of seared, mostly flavorless fish, unseasoned brocolli and carrots, and six or eight black beans. 480 calories, total. I'm not a restaurant critic, but I will warn you that when you've finished your meal you find yourself crunching down ice cubes while eyeing the napkin and wondering if paper is fat-free.
What I'm saying here, people, is that for the last three days I've eschewed temptation and consumed fewer calories than most people living in the ghettos of India.
So it was with a regretable lack of humility that I stepped on the scale this morning for the first time since Sunday. I told myself not to expect more than a pound, but I secretly hoped for two. Possibly five. At least. Words for the self-congratulatory (and yet deeply inspirational) blog I would post on my family's site ran through my head. So . . . are you ready? Contrary to all the laws of dieting (and decency) as I know them, I have gained three pounds!
So I came to you. I want commiseration. Consolation. I want cheesecake.
I'll settle for your stories. Inspire me. Make me feel worse. Just tell me I'm not alone.