I feel like I am on track, balanced somewhere between perfection and an all-out catastrophe.
Isn't it so boring to just focus on eating and diet and good food and bad food and the size of your jeans? Don't you ever get tired of it? Don't you wish you had a closet full of clothes that fit instead of a selection of sizes that may or may not fit given any given week, month, season or year?
I wonder if there's any escape once you decide to jump into the battle with weight and food. Is it like a door you walk through that slams locked behind you, the kind of door without a doorknob on the inside, the kind of door that dooms you to a life of imprisonment?
I sure hope not. I cling to a tiny hope that one day I can just eat when I'm hungry and silence the voice in my head who tells me lies.
In the meantime, I try to balance, try not to get crazy strict or crazy lazy.
In practical terms, that means that right now I'm drinking my gigantic glass of ice water. I've walked the dog for thirty minutes (up hill, both ways!). I'm going to make good choices. (Besides, there aren't any cookies in the house.)