I have absolutely no excuse for it this week. It was my birthday. My big sister bought me a pack of chocolate-covered marzipan, which I ate on Thursday, the day after my birthday. My Mum bought me a box of Ferrero Rocher, which I ate on Friday. My Mum baked me a cake, which I about a third of.
And I just plain ate too much food.
So I’ve no excuse for it this week except that I “enjoyed” my birthday week, if by “enjoyed” you mean “panicked that I only have a year left until I turn 30”.
What that means is that, if I want to reach my goal by my thirtieth birthday, I have 52 weeks to lose around about 200lbs. This is not impossible.
It is, however, pretty damn difficult.
I am going to give it my very best shot. This means probably Paleo, as much as I can. Atkins, when I can finally afford it. South Beach if I can’t deal with either of them.
Thing is, I’ve said to myself since I was about 25: I don’t want to be like this by my thirtieth birthday. I’ve spent my teens and my twenties like this, and I’ve wasted my time. I haven’t been a normal teenager or a normal twenty-something.
I’m gonna hit thirty, and if I’m anything nearing a normal weight, I’m gonna have a midlife crisis. I’m gonna start living my teenage years out. And it’s gonna either be amazing or it’s gonna suck awesomelly.
But that’s the thing. I’ve gotta get to a normal or nearing normal weight. I haven’t been there since I was about 12 or 13.
That’s 17 or 18 years, next years, of being overweight, ugly (in my own eyes), teased and picked on and wanting to be normal.
And that’s all it is, y’know? That’s all I want.
I just wanna be normal.
It means I’m gonna have to work really effin’ hard to get there, but…
I’ve got my workin’ shoes on, and I’m gonna give it my very best try.