Oh. My. God. I drink so much water I think my organs are drowning (is that even possible?). Not that this is really anything terribly new, I’ve always been quite partial to the stuff. I’m lucky enough to live in a city where the water is exceptional. Nothing beats coming home from a trip interstate (QLD water is probably the worst, followed by Sydney) or abroad (Jakarta and Lima – bottled water only), turning on the tap and smelling the chlorine and fluoride (thank you ACT government). Trust me, it’s a very welcoming smell and when you have grown up with it, it’s home. Canberran’s reading this are contemplating the subtle aroma of our H2O. Let it be known, should you drink two plus litres of water a day, your new work space becomes the bathroom cubicle. Just saying. On a side note, I have a friend, the Vegemite Wife, she and I have previously discussed our sometimes annal retentive tendencies (no pun intended). Do you always use the same cubicle – you try to, don’t you?
Water has now replaced all vodka and champagne and G&T and…since starting this challenge (diet) I have had one alcoholic beverage. It was in my first week.
The Devil gave me the heads up this week that I’ve been a bit of a cranky pants of late (isn’t he just a doll?), suggesting this new regime either starts to improve my mood or the household may implode. He fails to realise every waking moment is either spent thinking hard about what I’m going to (or not going to) eat. Working. Raising the Trolls. Exercising. oh, and being a wife. Not to mention I’ve not had a quiet little tipple in pretty much that whole time. And it’s the end of financial year – seriously, what does he expect? A girl can only do so much. I can’t really complain, he has always done more than his fair share around the house (did I mention he does all the washing and ironing?) and is always willing to support me on all of my crazy endeavours (there are my uni studies, there have been Spanish lessons, my career, many a diet and I’m sure he remembers plenty of others). I need to find my happy place with Michelle Bridges, this has to be a new way of life, not just a passing fad.
That all sounded good. Until last week. I hit the wall. I’ve had one of those moments, not earth shattering, but certainly the eye opening type. When I’m stressed I eat crap. I’m stressed. I’ve eaten some crap. I will say this much however, if I wasn’t signed up to this 12WBT I’d have certainly eaten more. Hell, I’d probably have had a beer. And the 12WBT made me think about the crap choices I was making.
I don’t regret it, I needed to chill out, and I certainly wasn’t going to cook. The Devil was having a boys night out, and my lil’ sister Midge and her husband Lurch came and spent Saturday night with the Trolls and I (I think they are as addicted to Guitar Hero as the Blue Troll). We ordered pizza, thank God for Crust. I perused that menu and was rather pleased with myself when I ordered the tick approved Beef Fajita. I ate it. I probably can’t write a rave review about it, but I felt good knowing I’d made a sensible choice. Strangely I haven’t felt the best since. No disrespect to Crust, their food is great quality. But because in the four weeks I’ve had of thinking and caring about what I’m eating, and choosing healthy, nutritious and small options, to chow down on pizza was just filling my body with stuff that doesn’t treat it kindly anymore. I may just skip ‘weigh in Wednesday’ this week. There’s really no need to rub salt into the lack of weight shifting wound.
The Pain Master had me up and running around the lake on Saturday. On Physio’s orders, I was only allowed to ‘run’ two km’s. We clocked 6.5 minute km’s for those two short lived metric measures of distance. I was pretty chuffed. We may have jogged the rest of the lap. I’m a tad disappointed the ankle is still giving me grief, but at least the swelling has subsided since the cortisone injection. I think at this point I just have to learn to suck it up and live with the discomfort. It makes me tougher anyway.
I bet vodka still tastes good.