Dearest Rachel –
It should come as no surprise that, upon returning from the cruise last month, I found myself not only no longer dancing around the two-ten line that I’d been considering a near-permanent plateau after four or five months, but hovering around the two-twenty line I hadn’t been at for as many months previous. The cruise lines feed you well; let’s face it, they’d hardly be worth their salt if they didn’t. And while you’d be expected to burn some of it off in the many activities available both aboard and onshore, there’s no guarantee of that, especially when going to a vacation destination where the whole point of being there is to lie inert under the sun.
So while it was a little disappointing to see once I got home, it didn’t come as a tremendous shock, either. Consequences follow actions (or, as much to the point, inaction) as surely as night follows day. The thought was that I would just buckle back down and work it off like I had before; with any luck, I’d make my way back to that point, and maybe even further, as I’d tested my metabolism and at least I hadn’t ballooned up to the two-thirties or anything. Just think; only a year and a half ago, I was wondering if I’d ever reach the weight listed on my driver’s license – now, if I weighed as much as that, I’d consider it a horrible setback.
But then I caught that cold, which precluded doing anything strenuous for the better part of two weeks. Not just because of being sick, or even the (understandable) malaise sapping what little motivation I had, but also because of the potential to spread what I had to the fitness center clientele. You remember how, near the end of my career, Mohinder would send me home whenever I showed up sick (after years of praising my determination for coming in to handle my workload regardless) because he didn’t want me infecting the rest of the staff? Consider how much more prevalent that attitude would be in an environment dedicated to improving one’s health (to say nothing of the attitude shift brought on by Covid. Sure, no one’s ever going to submit to draconian lockdowns again, but we’ve gotten to the point where obvious illnesses deserve to be quarantined). So yeah, that didn’t happen – or rather, got cut off just as I was about to start back up again.
At the same time, being home still meant I was mostly eating less than while abroad, and at my worst moments, in no mood to eat at all – although at my best, I was out at restaurants as if nothing was out of the ordinary. Would it amuse you to hear that, after the night at the teppan-yaki place, both Kristin and Daniel reported ill effects from having consumed so much rich food at one time, while I suffered no such effects? Probably not, as it sounds like I’m making light of their situation, but I mention it to point out that, for whatever reason, such activity didn’t appear to affect my digestive system adversely, a thought that wouldn’t have crossed my mind if such things hadn’t happened to them.
But despite these schizophrenic dining habits, my weight began to drift downward, ever so slowly, with little more than my continued monitoring of the situation. I didn’t put any particular effort into dieting; I just made sure to keep track of my weight from day to day, observing as I began to approach two-fifteen or so without any real action taken toward that end.
Then, this past weekend saw me in the booth, with enough to occupy my time and attention that I could go for a twenty-four hour period without eating. Granted, I still made sure to drink some coffee on Sunday morning (and wouldn’t that have gone over well with you! It’s weird how even you acknowledged that the stuff smelled pleasant enough, but on someone’s breath, yeah that’s a whole different story) in order to achieve and keep a certain energy level so early and for so long, but that hundred or so calories were nothing compared to what mere existence tends to burn in that same span of time. By the time I got home Sunday afternoon (and late, too, since I’d been absorbing the possibility of accompanying the mission team as I told you about yesterday), I was actually down to just a pound or two over the two-ten mark. I was back.
Or I would have been, if I hadn’t gotten a bit of a craving once I was home. I’d had to do some grocery shopping on my way home (since we’d essentially run out of milk before the weekend began), but I’d also considered grabbing something to eat on my way home. I split the difference by getting a few things I could prepare once I got home, and polished off a pair of cheddar brats, as well as emptying an old container of ice cream into the blender along with the last of the old milk and a fair helping of malt powder. Not exactly a breakfast of champions, that’s for sure; and it was a more generous malted milk than I’d expected, since it overflowed even our largest glasses. I really thought I’d be paying for it the next morning.
But when I awoke early on Monday, I was still at two-eleven, and with my cold all but gone and the day still young, I had both the time and energy to get out at get back to working out. I didn’t quite go all-out, but I put in more than four and a half miles on the treadmill (although if I hadn’t dialed it back after hitting five miles an hour, I might have stopped at three; going all-out after such a long time away is not the most advisable course of action), and when I got back, I was even a couple pounds under the two-ten level again.
The only problem with this was, after making such progress on such consumption, I thought I could keep getting away with what I’d done. On the way to Sparks last night, I suggested to Daniel that we grab dessert as well as dinner, because I still hadn’t completely satisfied my craving for ice cream. Even as daunting as some of the calorie listings were on the DQ menu board, I was determined to get myself something, even if I had to limit myself to a ‘medium’ size in order to assuage my conscience.
So this morning, I got up and stepped on the scale… to see a reading of two-fourteen. Yeah, it’s still under the two-fifteen line, but only just. Two evenings in a row of ice cream seem to have caught up with me, and it’s going to be a headache to get back down to where I want to be. On the other hand, at least I know what I need to refrain from for a while, and I can content myself with having been able to indulge a little bit and only have it go so far. It’s still annoying to deal with, though.
In any event, please keep an eye on me, honey, and wish me luck. I’m still going to need it.
Letters to Rachel 