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Tomorrow, I Love Ya, Tomorrow…

Tomorrow is the day. Appointment with the nutritionist.  I am giving up and begging for help. I cannot do it alone. I am hoping that she gives me helpful advice, and doesn’t just instantly produce wires to clamp my jaws shut.

Sixty-six days until 70.3. Eeeeek.

I have actually done pretty well eating-wise this week, with the exception of my “last meal” tonight (pizza…mmmmm….pizza.)  No beer/wine/fun for almost two weeks.  Nothing like sixty-six days to a Half Iron to scare me straight.

I would like to get some definitive answers, some lifestyle plan.  I have been on a giant weight yo-yo forever. I’m tired of it.  My closet ranges from size 8 to 18.  Annoying.  I would like to pick a size and stay there. Forever.  Or at least for six months.

I would prefer size 8, but I’ll take 10, and live happily ever after in a 12.  I’ve spent most of my life bouncing around size 14 like a ping pong.  Which is fine too.

Begging for consistency.  I mean really. Over the past 10 years, this crazy person could have been a chief spy in the CIA.

Here are some of the best….. and some of the very worst:

The funny thing is that the “best”… feels a helluva lot closer to me than the worst.  I mean really.  Look at that student ID picture. Shield the eyes of your children.

So here’s me now.  At least I’m moving around.  I think, by default, I look thinner just by all the moving around.  Or I’m just so “quick”….no one can get a real glance.  A ninja.  Yes.

Wish me luck tomorrow.  Pray that I don’t “accidentally” knock the fat caliper out of the nutritionist’s hand.

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