Tonight my kids are gone, spending night with their grandpa. Bradley and I are alone in the house, rattling around… Looking for something to do. We made dinner, went in the hot tub, and ate. I ate a BLT (fake bacon, naturally), a bag of pop chips, and tried to call it good. Except… It wasn’t good. I wanted something more. So, I decided to let myself have it. “It” being whatever I wanted to put in my mouth. I wanted chips and salsa. In the belly. Reese’s peanut butter cup. Nom nom nom. And it was if the Teddy Grahams just danced down my throat to some old Grateful Dead tunes. It was all very peaceful and fun and I enjoyed letting myself eat food. I haven’t eaten off my plan, really, since New Years. I’ve been very good for over four months.
(All totaled, I had two servings of tortilla chips, two of salsa, the equivalent of two-three Reese’s peanut butter cups and a handful of teddy Grahams. It could have been MUCH worse. It also could have been much better though, I know.)
Cut to two hours later. Gross. GROSS! GUH-ROSS! That’s how my belly feels now. Gross gross gross. I don’t miss junk food as much as I assumed I would. Turns out? All that junk makes me feel sick.