Losing track of days

One of the weirdest things about not having a hard schedule due to a job is never really being sure of what day of the week it is. Is it Monday? Feels like a Friday. It's Wednesday, and I know this because it was crew change day for KJ, but I woke up this morning thinking it was Saturday. I still don't know what day of the diet I'm on...

Seriously, does anyone know?

Counting forward from the appropriate blog post, it appears to be Day 7 of Cycle 2, but we have been cheating in the evenings. Bad cheating. Cheesecake cheating. One of our friends brought a strawberry cheesecake to the potluck on Saturday and so we were left with the remains in our fridge. What am I supposed to do? Not eat it? I'm not a superhero. So we ate some. A couple times. Naturally, KJ continued to lose weight while my weight stood still. It's hard not to get frustrated with his fucking metabolism. I'm kind of glad he's back on a ship-food diet for the next 4 weeks so I can focus on feeding myself and he can snack on whatever he wants without me having to see or smell it.

"Crunch those chips just ONE. MORE. TIME!"

I started today feeding myself bran flakes and almond milk, and then I opened the fridge and threw half a cheesecake in the garbage. I feel like a terrible person for that, but my gut flab will thank me when it dies an honorable death. In addition to a sensible breakfast, fruit, vegetables for lunch, and leftover spaghetti squash in meat sauce for supper, I took advantage of the beautiful sunshine and warm temperature today and went for a walk and burned off 300 calories. I also had a great day where my stomach was concerned. My useless, lazy, irritable insides finally did their job without a toxic salad, stimulants, or a fire hose to help them out. Praise baby Jebus! Friday is weigh-in day, so with any luck I'll see some results in that accursed number.

And if not, I'll run over the scale with my car.