Anger Managed.

Remember last week, when I was mad as hell (at myself? at the fates? at scales? at cake?) that I'd maintained? And I vowed to use that anger and frustration to propel me forward this week?

It worked. I'm not condoning anger or anything here, but the truth is that I lost 2 pounds this week. And I did it the old-fashioned way: I watched the hell out of every bite that I ate and stopped eating when I was satisfied rather than stuffed. I had salads for dinner or lunch (sometimes both) most days. I ate a light but healthy breakfast. I didn't overdo it on desserts, but I did eat 2 pieces of chocolate cake and a bowl of Hagen Daas over the weekend. YES! I ate them and I STILL lost. And I'm so happy the scale moved for me this week, but I'm not quite willing to let go of the scale grudge that helped bust my mini-setback just yet.

A good friend of mine is also on WW, and when I told her I maintained last week and I wasn't happy, she tried to soothe me off the edge and remind me that, in the world of WW, maintaining is a success. After all, it's better than gaining, and sometimes maintaining is harder that any other part of the journey.

But here's the thing: I won't be happy about maintaining. I won't be happy about the status quo. Being satisfied that 'at least I didn't gain anything' is not part of my weight loss journey because that attitude is what has me here, on WW having started out at the same weight as I've been since a few months after Rohan's birth.

Rohan turned 2 in March. MARCH! Being happy not to have gained any weight in the past 2 years is not ok with me. Accepting a maintenance week very rarely would be ok, but accepting maintenance is like saying I'm ok with my weight. And I'm not. Believe me, I sometimes wish I could be fat and happy and eat cake with abandon, but in the end being fat makes me miserable.

It really struck home with me this weekend because we're finally starting to get 'summer' weather in Arizona, and all our family and friends with pools have been inviting us over. I LOVE water. I LOVE to swim. I would rather staple my face to the floor than put on a swimsuit in front of anyone aside from my husband and kids. And yet...the water calls, and so do those sweet little monsters who love swimming (by swimming I mean being chauffered around the pool in floaties or arms since neither of them actually knows how to swim yet). So far, I've been able to sit on the sidelines and put in my feet while everyone else swims, but this summer Luca's onto my game. And she's not having it. Every time we go swimming somewhere, she asks me to get in the wate with her, and when she does that in front of people, how do I say no? I don't mean that as in 'I can't say no to my Princess'. I mean it as in, I can't so no in front of other people because then she will ask why and am I really supposed to say, "Well, mommy's ass is so big she'd prefer not to embarass herself by wearing a swimsuit in front of people."?? I can't say that, partly because it would be embarassing as hell and partly because I don't want my daughter to be the victim of my personal insecurities.

So, twice this weekend I went swimming. In front of family. Most of it, skinny family who I was sure love me and yet whom I have no desire to bear my fat thighs and gross belly to. Faced with the choice, I had fun with my kids, but I covered up while doing so. Not in some cute swimsuit designed to hide all 'problem areas' (which, I have a problem with those suits too because not much screams "Look at my thighs!" than a swimsuit attempting to look chic while covering said thighs). Nope. In one of my husband's huge shirts.

It was shameful, really. There's a certain shame attached to being the person wearing the big t-shirt in the pool. Everyone knows it's not really to block the sun. Everyone knows it's really to block them from seeing you. And much like the swimsuits with skirts, it probably serves to call MORE attention to my discomfort with my body than if I'd just walked out in a swimsuit, dropped the towel, and pretended not to care that I'm fat.

In a way, it's a good thing I had those 2 experiences this weekend. They reminded me, sharply and painfully, why I'm trying to work on transforming my body and my health. They refocused me. They gave me something to work toward. Someday, a swimsuit in public with no big t-shirt. Someday.

Which brings me back to today. I'm beyond proud to have lost 2 pounds this week, but I'm not letting go of the frustration that helped me get there. I'm going to hold onto that feeling because it helps me stay on track, focus on where I want to go, and avoid falling into a state of not giving a shit anymore. That state only got me where I am today, and I'm not interested in staying here.