I allowed myself a "woot" -- just one "woot" -- on the day the scale showed I'd attained my goal weight.
It was last Friday. As is my custom after completing a swim, I showered, wrung the excess water out of my swimsuit, changed into my undies and stepped on the locker room's scale. There it was, the more-or-less arbitrary number for which I've been aiming for almost a year and a half.
So why just one "woot?" Why not hug every woman in the locker room and proclaim, "Rejoice with me, for that which was found is lost!"? Why didn't I go find the Dans and treat them each to a meal from the American Bistro's famous salad bar? (That's what passes for a cafeteria at the hospital-clinic where I swim, where I underwent PT and where I had my knee surgery. It's extraordinary -- focused on healthful food, and offering an amazing variety of greens.)
Well... I know from experience that this is not a one-time achievement.
It's something I'll have to fight for, for the rest of my life.
From now on, my "goal weight" is within five pounds, plus-or-minus, of the number I saw on the scale on Friday.
The "plus" part is all too easy. All I need to do is eat a few extra crackers (even though they're healthy and rich in fiber), or cut an exercise session short, and the weight will creep back up.
And to my great surprise, holding onto my bikini body, such as it is, has become a far stronger motivator than I would have suspected a few months ago, when wearing a bikini was just a vague fantasy.
Like a lot of people, I will need to be vigilant, for the rest of my life, to keep from ballooning up again.
I wasn't teasing last week when, at the Lodi Agricultural Fair, I observed the 4-H culinary exhibits -- cakes, pies, cookies, etc. -- and said, "Look! There's food I don't eat anymore."
It's not just that I can't get a corn dog, or a deep-fried Oreo cookie, at the fair. At a restaurant, anything fried, sauced or cheese-covered is not on my order; in most cases, even a healthful entree will be half-eaten at the cafe, with the other half taken home for a later meal.
As challenging as it is, I must-must-must make time to work out. Missing a day or two each week is OK, but I need to accumulate at least 150 minutes of exercise every week.
And, I need to keep listening to my body. That means eating breakfast every day, taking a 100-calorie or 200-calorie snack if I'm feeling low on energy and consuming mostly food that I've prepared myself, so I know exactly how it was made and what's in it.
Still, pardon me for indulging in a small fist-pump, and one more "Woot!"
I did it!
Now I have to hold onto it.
* * * * * * * * * *
BTW, meet Theodore Francis Jerde. He's my cat -- a perpetual kitten in the body of a 10-year-old senior citizen. He's sweet and loving, and he brings joy to our home.
It was last Friday. As is my custom after completing a swim, I showered, wrung the excess water out of my swimsuit, changed into my undies and stepped on the locker room's scale. There it was, the more-or-less arbitrary number for which I've been aiming for almost a year and a half.
So why just one "woot?" Why not hug every woman in the locker room and proclaim, "Rejoice with me, for that which was found is lost!"? Why didn't I go find the Dans and treat them each to a meal from the American Bistro's famous salad bar? (That's what passes for a cafeteria at the hospital-clinic where I swim, where I underwent PT and where I had my knee surgery. It's extraordinary -- focused on healthful food, and offering an amazing variety of greens.)
Well... I know from experience that this is not a one-time achievement.
It's something I'll have to fight for, for the rest of my life.
From now on, my "goal weight" is within five pounds, plus-or-minus, of the number I saw on the scale on Friday.
The "plus" part is all too easy. All I need to do is eat a few extra crackers (even though they're healthy and rich in fiber), or cut an exercise session short, and the weight will creep back up.
And to my great surprise, holding onto my bikini body, such as it is, has become a far stronger motivator than I would have suspected a few months ago, when wearing a bikini was just a vague fantasy.
Like a lot of people, I will need to be vigilant, for the rest of my life, to keep from ballooning up again.
I wasn't teasing last week when, at the Lodi Agricultural Fair, I observed the 4-H culinary exhibits -- cakes, pies, cookies, etc. -- and said, "Look! There's food I don't eat anymore."
It's not just that I can't get a corn dog, or a deep-fried Oreo cookie, at the fair. At a restaurant, anything fried, sauced or cheese-covered is not on my order; in most cases, even a healthful entree will be half-eaten at the cafe, with the other half taken home for a later meal.
As challenging as it is, I must-must-must make time to work out. Missing a day or two each week is OK, but I need to accumulate at least 150 minutes of exercise every week.
And, I need to keep listening to my body. That means eating breakfast every day, taking a 100-calorie or 200-calorie snack if I'm feeling low on energy and consuming mostly food that I've prepared myself, so I know exactly how it was made and what's in it.
Still, pardon me for indulging in a small fist-pump, and one more "Woot!"
I did it!
Now I have to hold onto it.
* * * * * * * * * *
BTW, meet Theodore Francis Jerde. He's my cat -- a perpetual kitten in the body of a 10-year-old senior citizen. He's sweet and loving, and he brings joy to our home.
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