I love it when I have my page written before I leave work. Sometimes I even have it blocked and sketched by then too. Unfortunately, those days the comic is usually pretty sad.
So clearly the lack of progress is starting to get to me a little. Or maybe it’s not, but I feel like it should be? Either way, it’s been in the back of my mind lately. Shouldn’t I be wanting to lose more weight? Is it a cop-out, am I taking the easy way out, to say that I’m ok with where I am? I know I’ve improved my diet considerably, but couldn’t I stand to eat even healthier?
Or am I just really depressed today because I didn’t get any sleep last night, so everything’s making me cranky? Maybe everything will feel better in the morning.
Ok, it’s the next morning, and things do feel a little better. I caught up on sleep last night and I feel significantly less grumpy.
That said, I’m left wondering why my instinct is to be so hard on myself. The other day I was biking to work along the lakefront path here in Chicago, and I passed a jogger. She was probably around 60 (although I’m a terrible judge of age), and she was wearing a tank top and capri-length jogging pants, happily plodding along. Her arms weren’t incredibly toned, she wasn’t skinny, she was hardly a model, and the first thing I thought when I looked at her was how beautiful she was.
I look at myself and that’s absolutely the last thing I think.
Basically, I’m sitting there thinking, I have lost 15 pounds, and I have reliably kept it off. Sure, I’d like to lose some more, but shouldn’t that 15 pounds be a victory in itself? Why can’t I just enjoy my accomplishment? Why is my instinct STILL to beat myself up about this?