Back at work, after a weekend that ranked as rather somnambulant. When everything you do is accompanied by a need for sleep, including a flight of stairs, you give in to sleep. Then the next thing you know it's Tuesday and you're tired of being sick, sick of being tired, et cetera. No fun.
Even less fun was when I finally decided to bite the bullet and step on the scale yesterday. Oh, dear God. When you're looking for an answer to, "I look and feel lousy," it's always nice to have a number to quantify it. I was so mortified by the experience that I mentioned it to the wife, who repeated the number at least once or twice over the next couple of hours.
I haven't done any serious working out since the triathlon, which was at the end of April. There's resting, and then there's taking the summer off, and then there's the food-and-drink-bender-of-mythic-proportions, which is what I've done. I have plenty of time to get ready for Chicago and enough time to be ready for the full distance next year in Vegas, but if I don't start doing something soon I'll wind up getting hurt before I get fit. There's another Brass Challenge supposedly coming up in October, and I need to be there; our team's lost one runner to resignation already, and the coordinator is now in my chain of command.
So now it's water instead of soda, no booze, salads, sure, no croutons, plenty of vegetables, and probably back to the lab-rat workout-crazy Myoplex days, where I managed to lose 30 pounds with no regard to what I ate. If I put it all together now I should be where I want by Christmas, just in time for another trip to Chicago. And as soon as I stop sneezing up disgusting things, I'll get back in the water and swim again.
Every post at night, while I'm thinking about it, will have a +/- at the end of it, which is where my weight will be compared to that god-awful number I saw yesterday. When I feel ready to disclose that number, I'll let you know, but for right now, let's count progress as progress, hmm?
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