Lovely day - no weighing, French bacon butty for breakfast, much decaffitude (note to self - never go and sit in a bookshop cafe on payday), and an Italian meal for dinner.
I know! Pasta!
Bottom line, I don't feel guilty about any of it. I'm not yet at the stage of weeping and wailing and flagellating myself raw for every calorie consumed. I daresay that insufferable joyfest will come, but it isn't here yet - it's waaaaay too early in a long-ass process to be doing that.
Besides, technically, I haven't overdone it today. Two meals, including a pasta portion, a soup and a piece of carbohydrate stuffed with bacon. By all means, don't call it a perfect day, but neither is it a particularly bad one. Neither bacon nor pasta's on my verboten list, it's all about portion control and the overall picture of the day.
I'm particularly not minded to worry about it having been reminded this evening that it's twenty years this week since I got the living crap kicked out of me on the streets of Merthyr on New Year's Eve, and spent the first week of the year in hospital, having my ankle bolted back together. There was talk of simply amputating my foot that New Year's Eve. So that's twenty years of having two feet I've had which were in no way guaranteed to me that night. That puts stuff into perspective. Am I going to worry about pasta tonight? Notsomuch.
I'm going to sit here, waggling my two feet and grinning, while planning to put both of them to work this weekend, pushing down the weight attached to me. Pushing down the burden that every day alive puts on those ankles, on these knees, and on this heart. That for me is a good day, and a good plan.
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