6-6-6
It’s past six p.m. … I’ve had six meetings today … I have six hours’ worth of work ahead of me … and I have a commitment later tonight that has nothing to do with numbers but you get the idea.
On the subject of numbers, however, I dragged my pudgy pork-roast butt back to Weight Watchers on Saturday.
Jesus. Christ.
I’ve put on a few pounds, we’ll say, since I moved here. Not as many as I originally carried, thank God. But still.
Pudgy. Pork. Roast. Ass.
Anyway, I have not had five fucking seconds to eat today, let alone count my points. But it occurs to me …
I HAVE BEEN UNDER-EATING.
I can’t lose a pound to save my life and I haven’t been able to figure out why. But let’s assume you should be consuming, say, about 28 points a day, right? It’s 6:30 p.m. and I can guarantee you I haven’t had more than 5 all day.
And then I get home after 9 p.m., say, and SHOVEL IN EVERY MORSEL I CAN FIND.
I also stay up late too, since I get so screwed out of evening time that I will stay up till 1 a.m. And get up at 5:30 a.m. to do this whole motherloving adventure all over again.
I guess what I’m saying is, undereating makes you just as fat as overeating. I’m sure the stress doesn’t help, either. But … wow.
Me … an under-eater? Who knew?