I've eaten to excess all weekend. I drank quite a few cans last night, to the point when questioned how many I'd had, I couldn't work it out. I'm sat here on a Sunday evening feeling bloated, nauseous and downright disappointed in myself. My trousers aren't sitting as comfortably around my waist as they would have done a couple of days ago. Not a great way to start the last month of this project.
The silly thing is I had in mind to write a post this evening encouraging my loyal readers to Diet in December with me. Having been asked by a couple of people in recent days what my secret has been, I was going to lay out my typical food intake along with a few photos of the meals. After one of my mates suggested the other day that there is no point in dieting ahead of Christmas, I was planning to prove otherwise. Three good weeks in the lead up to a Christmas binge would make for a better end to the year than a month-long feast.
But instead of doing that, I'm feeling sorry for myself. And big. I dread to think what the scales would make of it all right now Fortunately I've got a couple of days to minimise the weekly damage, but 48 hours of extreme discipline doesn't sound particularly appealing right now. I've done well over the past 11 months through consistency; switching to a 5:2 diet to try to counter a bad week to date isn't really a direction I want to take.
Looking at the positives, I know that I can hit that metaphorical switch and revert to form whenever I want to, so long as conditions allow. A decent enough sleep tonight and getting out of the right side of the bed in the morning will get things settled. If I wake in the mood for food, things will be pretty messy on Wednesday morning for the weigh-in.
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