So this is me screaming. At the top of my lungs. Out of sheer frustration.


I’ve been going to SWLC for nearly six weeks now. Six weeks on Tuesday. I’ve lost a smidge more than 21 pounds as of last week’s weigh-in. And I. Can’t. See it. Anywhere.

It’s not like I expected to be transformed by now. OK, maybe I did, but I knew that was not realistic. That doesn’t keep a girl from hoping.

C’mon! It’s been six weeks! I should be a freakin’ size two by now! I know that’s not realistic either.

No, this isn't me. (I would not traumatize you like that.) But it's fairly representative of how I feel.

No, this isn’t me. (I would not traumatize you like that.) But it’s fairly representative of how I feel.

I do, however, believe that it’s not unrealistic to expect my clothes to be the tiniest bit looser. And they’re not. At all. One pair of jeans is actually tighter!  How wrong is that?

People keep telling me to be patient. Allow me to let you in on a little secret. Patience with myself is not my strong suit. (Worst-kept secret ever, right?) It’s been six weeks! And I do not see the slightest little change in my body.

Wait, that’s not true. My skin is obnoxiously dry. My hair is brittle. And my nails are thin and splitting. All side effects of rapid weight loss. Those I can see without even looking. They smack me upside the head daily.

But is there any sign of the positive stuff? Nope. Not to me.

A co-worker said she could see a difference in my chin and neck. (Would that be my jowls?)

My mom said she could see a difference in my upper abdomen (aka second row of boobs) and my butt.

I can be endlessly patient with other people. With myself? Not so much.

I can be endlessly patient with other people. With myself? Not so much.

Me? Nothing. I see nothing. And it’s not because I’m not looking.

Maybe that’s the problem. I’m looking too hard, just waiting for the smallest outward indication of success, of visual positive reinforcement.

You know the saying, “A watched pot never boils”? I am both pot and watcher. And there ain’t no boiling going on that I can see.

A friend of mine checked in on me earlier today, and I told him I was frustrated because things are not progressing the way I think they should.

He quoted Abraham Lincoln to me.

“I’m a slow walker, but I never walk back.”

He also pointed out “that slow progress is usually more beneficial than instant gratification …”

He’s right. I know he’s right. The logical corner of my brain has no problem with that. But there’s my inner voice of evil, that persistent nagging bitch on wheels in my head, whispering three words in my ear. “You’re failing. Again.”

Over. And over. And over.

She says I’m not just failing myself, but I’m letting down everyone who is supporting me. She is truly evil. Like Nurse Ratched evil. Voldemort evil. Emperor Palpatine evil. Annie Wilkes evil.

I’m trying to tune her out, reminding myself that slow and steady wins the race.

Not listening

This is me. Figuratively speaking.

I have my fingers in my ears and am chanting, “La, la, la, laaaa! I am not listening to you!”

I am determined to be positive.

But it would be super awesome if my body would get on board and throw me a bone. Or require me to dig out a belt.


Now please excuse me while I go in search of a sugar-free lozenge. I’ve screamed myself hoarse.

Stay tuned for Tuesday’s weigh-in.