So last week I wrote about my new low. Shortly after that, my company had a gathering with a few dozen boxes of gourmet pizza, coke, and other stuff. I had three slices.
I was also at the beginning of a nasty bout of something. You know how you can feel, the day before, that a bacterial storm’s a-brewin’? it’s there in the sinuses, the back of the throat – a warm, acidic harbinger of unhappiness? Well, it brewed up quick last Wednesday. I was partly hoping the offering of pizza would quell the tempest, but no such luck.
Woke up Thursday knowing I wouldn’t be going to work; they prefer we not share our germs. I worked from home, picked up the Z-Pack for me and Marie – she also had a case of it – and that’s when I knew it was gonna be a rough ride. The Z-pack packs a wallop, and it met stiff resistance.
I was down for the count for a couple of days. On Saturday we went to a church fundraiser, and I ate a baker’s half-dozen of tiny tacos, but even that bit of time out of the house wiped me out for two more days, through the end of the five-day treatment.
I weighed in Monday at 417. My trainer said, no worries – four pounds of that is probably water.
Yesterday I went back to work, put in a full day, then did one T25 Beta Cardio workout in the pool, then spent some time stretching in the hot tub and breathing deep in the steam room.
This morning? 411.2 pounds. Smallest I’ve ever been since we got married, and one good poop away from the hundred pound mark.
409.x is so close I can taste it. And with about 10 days to go until we drive to Utah, the 390s is not out of reach.
As long as they don’t throw any more pizza our way.