I dreaded stepping onto the scale this morning.  You can probably guess why:  I got cocky after losing 3.5 pounds my first week on the new plan.  As a result, I got sloppy.

I knew, for certain, that I would weigh in higher today than a week ago.  The question was:  How much higher?  Just how bad was I the last seven days?

So I was relieved — and surprised — when the read-out told me I was 181.5 pounds, exactly what I weighed a week ago. 

I don’t view this as a great accomplishment, by any means.  I feel like a got a free pass after falling down on the job.

What exactly did I do that was so bad?  Mainly, I had a little too much fun.  I played a bit fast and loose with wine at dinner.  I ate more than I needed to.  Saturday night was the worst, though:  Four slices of anchovy pizza!  I freely confess that I enjoyed every single morsel.  After all, we were at Paradise Pizza in Verplanck, which is home to possibly the best pizza in Westchester County.  Quite frankly, I haven’t had pizza that I like better anywhere in New York City, either.

From there, the road to hell was a short one.  It didn’t take much arm-twisting by my dinner companions to persuade me to have a fried mozarella stick.  And a cookie at dessert.

Looking back, I can see that I had more on my social calendar last week than the week before: book group on Wednesday(our hostess Dory, who’s a fabulous cook, made an awesome pasta with a Mediterranean-style meat sauce); dinner with my neice on Thursday (which I cooked but ate too much of); pizza Lollapalooza on Saturday; and then brunch with my nephew on Sunday.

I don’t do so well, restraint-wise, in social situations.  Eating and drinking wine are fun, especially when I’m in good company and enjoying myself.

But to give myself some credit, I did better than I would have in the olden days.  I had small portions at Dory’s house and only one little taste of the cheese on the appetizer table (although I scarfed down on the salted peanuts!).  I had a chopped salad with grilled chicken for brunch on Sunday, along with a bowl of French onion soup topped only minimally with melted cheese, at my request.

And I made it to the gym four times.  Five times would have been better, but four is OK.  The sad truth is that I probably would have made it there fewer times if not for my male cat Arlo, who has a habit of rousting me out of bed at six-ish every morning so that he can have his breakfast.  I’m able to resist some days, but there was at least one day last week when I would have stayed in bed until at least 7 if he hadn’t been so persistent. 

Arlo: He's not just a cat; he's a weight loss aide!

This week I have resolved to do better.  The weight-loss gods gave me a break this time, but I am on a mission, after all!  Next week will be a different story …
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