Weight, weight, don’t tell me

Losing weight is hard.

I weigh myself first thing each morning. Occasionally I am pleased by what the scale says, and then I exclaim, “Yes!” (whispered, so as not to wake anyone else up) and do a victory fist-pump (feebly, since I haven’t had any coffee yet). But much more often I am not pleased, and then I talk back to the scale, casting aspersions on its ancestry, entreating it to perform anatomical impossibilities, and the like.

As of today I am 117 days into my weight-loss program, which is 29.1% of the way from when I started to the goal of my next birthday. Unfortunately my weight is lagging about ten days behind at 26.7% of the way from start-weight to goal-weight.

Still, considering the holidays just passed — dietarily disastrous as expected — and the fact that I still have not begun any meaningful amount of exercise, I guess it’s not too bad. I have a good strategy for catching up when I’m starting to fall behind: skip dinner. Getting on my bike when the weather turns nice again (actually it’s been unseasonably pleasant so far, but I plan my activities as if it’s a normal Northern California winter) will be an even better strategy.

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