OMG. It has finally happened. I am finally so sick of being fat that I am going to start counting calories with My Fitness Pal tomorrow. That's the app Ben has used to lose 20+ pounds, and it tracks both my calories and my workouts-- the more I exercise, the more I can eat. I have been avoiding counting my calories because I am breast feeding and fondly remembering back in the day when I was 28 breast feeding Harry and watching the pounds fall off even though I ate more nursing him than when I was pregnant with him. But, alas, I am now 35 with the slow, grumpy metabolism to prove it.
So. Weight loss. I want to do it. Maybe more than I want to eat my face off. We shall see.
I gained 35 with Dorothy, but I was 15 pounds heavier than usual when I got pregnant (because I had a 9-month old when I got pregnant, and the pounds weren't pouring off nursing him, either). I lost 20 pounds right away, but since then? Nothing. Well, 2-3 pounds, I guess. (Although I am eating like CRAZY and not gaining weight, so the breast feeding must be doing something).
Anyway, what I am trying to say is I want to lose 27 pounds.
When I lose 27 pounds I am going to spend a disgusting amount of money on new clothes and coats. Lululemon and Anthropologie are screaming my name. Eye on the prize, friends-- hoping it distracts me from the cookies.
Since I am starting tomorrow, tonight means spicy cheese dip and beer in front of Big Brother, natch.
How about a good old fashioned phone dump? Because I have been working really hard on the online class I am developing (I am getting paid through January to develop that class instead of teaching, which is freaking fantastic for the nursing on demand but also a lot harder than teaching, but I can do it all from the comfort of my couch, but holy shit it's a ton of work).
She's so sweet and salmon colored