Last week, I was commiserating about how I got stuck on a weight-loss plateau.
I walked home four out of five nights from the Bookstore (Wednesday I just snagged a bus because, y’know, it’s okay to be lazy every once in a while). Saturday, with the unrelenting heat finally relenting, I resumed my long-walks and took a leisurely not-quite-six mile walk:
In addition, on the advice of a former colleague (the woman who hired me to my current office job, actually; she blogs here), I began drinking beer. Well, I mean, I’ve been drinking beer. But I usually don’t have a beer at 10:20pm when I’ve just walked home from work and I’ve gotta get up in a few hours, because that just seems silly. But her advice to me was:
“you need to do something to shock your system again, and usually cutting out a chemical for two weeks is enough to do the trick. In fact, one known gimmick for continually overcoming the plateau effect is to totally use alcohol in that fashion, because after the two weeks you take it back up, and then when you next level off, cut it out again. It’s pretty much a two weeks on two weeks off situation, but it is known to work.”
So: to sum up, I’ve been drinking beer at night (I’ve actually stopped doing it for this week). With the heat not so hot, I’ve been walking. One thing I haven’t been doing is going to the gym in the morning: rather, I’m sleeping in until six, and loving it.
Last week I was 238.5.
This morning? 233.5.
FIVE POUNDS, BITCHES. FIVE FUCKING POUNDS LOST!
(I’ll probably find them by next Monday … le sigh).
BUT! 233.5? Is currently the lowest I’ve weighed since I began this effort over half a year ago. Wow, it doesn’t actually seem like it’s been that long. In any case, I can now tell people I’ve lost “over twenty-five pounds” and not by lying — twenty-five and a half pounds, gone! Feels great, and I’m looking forward to my walk home tonight.