Every morning. Same ritual. Groan in preparation for the morning weigh-in. I take off every stitch of clothing thinking that my underwear somehow will tip the scales. (Am I a child?) I take a deep breath. My food intake from the prior day flashes by. Hoping for a miracle here – thinking maybe, just maybe, my super metabolism worked harder overnight – – given that I slept well and all. (Are you serious? This is going to be bad.) Then, I then step on the scale. Damn it. No miracle. And this is even after grinding out my work-out three days in a row.
Here’s the score card:
| Day | Activity | Distance | Calories Burned | Weight* |
| Friday | Elliptical | 5.3 miles | 525 | 205.6 |
| Saturday | Run | 4.7 miles | 470 | 205.0 |
| Sunday | Run | 5.0 miles | 500 | 205.2 |
(*Who am I kidding adding decimals)
So, I just finished my run. And decided to tally up the tonnage from yesterday’s feeding frenzy – – and humiliate myself in front of all of my closest friends. GOING PUBLIC. LETTING IT ALL HANG OUT THERE. Here we go: