Avoidance

I got back from Vegas on Monday night, and am scared to get on the scale. Yes, I - a 32-year-old, 5'10" woman - am scared of a contraption made of metal and elaborate pully-weights-thingies.

I don't know why I'm so scared - I didn't go crazy eating-wise in Vegas (we didn't have time!). Yes, I probably had more McDonald's breakfast sandwiches than I should have (sausage is my drug), but I had to walk about half a mile from my hotel room to get them. And I was usually either pushing the stroller or toting my 30-pound niece as I walked. My big indulgence of the weekend was the overpriced margarita from Jimmy Buffett's Margaritaville on The Strip - but it was so stinkin' good it was worth it. And, again, we'd walked at least half a mile to get it.

So, even if I did gain weight, it probably won't be as bad as I thought. So why am I so afraid? Because I know me and my fatalistic, all-or-nothing way of thinking. If I have a big gain now, it will likely knock me off track for another several months. I'll fall off the wagon HARD again, and heaven knows when I'll pick myself back up. It's far too easy to go back to all-coffee-and-Swedish-Fish, all the time.

So, I'm easing myself back into routine, tracking Points, drinking lots of hot water with decaf tea, and waiting until Monday to get back on the scale. I'm hoping I won't have lost any ground at that point - and that I'll have enough energy to get up early enough to actually brave the basement stairs and get ON the scale.