I Don't Like Tuesdays

As a kid, I always used to identify with cartoon cat Garfield.
1. He was a grinning podgy smartarse, and so was I.
2. He was a pasta fiend, and so was I.
3. He came out with two of my own personal mantras - There is never a need to outrun what you can out-think, and I never met a carbohydrate I didn't like.
4. That cat had a very sensible, straightforward approach to Mondays.

Now I'm not about to go all Brenda Ann Spencer on your asses, declare I don't like Mondays and go out and shoot eleven people, but Garfield would start suffering from Mondays, often, before they arrived. In fact, he often suffered from Mondays that launched sneak attacks, creeping round corners to catch him unawares.

That's kind of how today feels. We were having a lovely holiday, each doing our own thing, and then doing our shared things - for a minute there it was like we didn't need to work for a living, and could just live as we wanted to. Now suddenly, Monday has launched a sneak attack, and before you know it, it'll be Tuesday. 

Now Tuesdays....yeah, just conceivably, Tuesdays might make me pick up a semi-automatic weapon...
This Tuesday in particular sucks more of Satan's ass than usual, because it means d goes back to work after we've been together for four days. And you're gonna think we're soppy, but that'll be hard. We'll miss each other after being together 24/7 for four whole days. And of course, Tuesday also means another weigh-in, which has likewise sprung itself on me as if out of nowhere, from a clear blue sky and a lovely warm Easter break, and that's frankly not bloody fair.

This Tuesday has already stolen some of the pleasure out of this Monday for me, because weighing tomorrow means panic and desperation today, all man-breast beating and creeping fear of the scales and their Tuesday morning judgment. Those who've been keeping score will know that this week I've been, if not exactly hamstrung, then at least moderately blisterstruck, kept from my newly-normal walking regime. I've also been eating rather more freely than has been the case since I started this experiment, so it's not as though I don't have good reason to fear. I've been feeling huge and flabby pretty much all week, but somehow, in the glorious sunshine we've had this week, it's been easier to feel good, and free, and somehow as though nothing matters quite as much. It's only now, with my back up against a Tuesday weigh-in, that reality appears to be slamming back into place.

Am I really worried? To be honest, a lot will depend on exactly what the weigh-in says. That I'll have made progress and lost any weight seems vastly unlikely - but then it seemed vastly unlikely to me last week too, and that worked out just dandy. I should say I don't expect to have lost anything this week (and I haven't really expected to since this week began with blisters, as you'll know). If I've maintained, I'll be thrilled. If I've put on two pounds, I'll grin well enough and bear it. More than that and I'll start to be irritated with myself. More than four pounds and I'll feel it as a serious setback. So, we'll see what happens tomorrow.

So today, with the faintly perverse desperation of a last-minute penitent, I've done 25 miles of cycling. I did plan to do more than simply look at my dumb-bells too, but somehow that hasn't materialised. Tomorrow, dammit. Tomorrow, I take them out of the box. Tomorrow, I'm also going to see the doctor, to hopefully get the all-clear about the blisters so I can start walking properly again. So all in all, I'm feeling like I'm in a recoverable position. I'm just hoping there's not too much to recover come the morning...