I know, I know. It's only been a little over a week...but we are so programmed to expect quick results that a week without weight loss is a little discouraging. Petula says that, particularly as we get older, our bodies treat diet changes as a threat and they go into a survival mode of sorts, tightly holding on in the belief that during the hard times, that extra fat is going to be what saves your life.
I knew up front that this was going to be a challenge. For all those times that Flyboy "sacrificed" that second doughnut here and there and lost weight, even he sees how hard this is. He sees my commitment and he sees what I'm eating (and not eating) and he knows I'm really serious this time (as opposed to the 500 times I forgot by mid-morning of the first day why the idea was so darn importnat in the first place). He has ALWAYS been a big exercise freak, has ALWAYS had a health club membership that he actually faithfully used. Well, until this past year...but he is trying now, post-treatment, to slowly get back into shape and now he knows first hand how hard it is for the average slug to a) drag himself to the gym, b) do again the next day, and the day after that,and c) see results.
But still he pounds the exercise pulpit and insists that exercise really doesn't count if you don't break a sweat. I've tried to explain the physiology behind the theory in 8 Minutes in the Morning - the point of these easy exercises is not to sculpt a new body but to kick-start the metabolism machine first thing. This concept works better than any other exercise in my life because I can't figure out how to work the break-a-sweat kind into my schedule. I'm not ready to abandon ship yet. I think I just need to give it some more time.
So...the bottom line is I have to find some encouragement in the fact that during the last nine days I've not once broken protocol or done a face plant into a bag of chips or a pan of brownies. This is the good news.
And, to quote Dash (who likes to quote Chicken Little): "Today is a new day."
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