I swear, waiting for the FedEx guy is more involving than waiting for Santa. Granted, Santa never brought me so desperately desired an object. But again, that's not why I'm writing.
At the turn of the year I started keeping a food journal. Again. I tried to convince myself that I was just trying to be healthy, more aware of what I'm eating, and to break the mindless munching habit I'd started at home. That's sort of true, but the mechanism for breaking that habit was guilt and fear - you eat that cracker and you'll have to write it down! That extra spoonful of yogurt counts, young lady.
After a somewhat painful conversation with Jim (thanks again), I stuck the journal under my desk. But that talk revealed another thing - I have no idea how many calories my body actually needs. I have trouble trusting formulas where x + y(4.55/p) = your daily caloric/fat/carbohydrate/protein needs. The weight I gained over the summer and fall didn't come from me purposefully measuring out my calories and making sure I took in a surplus. Hell, I gained weight while exercising more regularly than I had in a long time. I gained weight from loosening up a little, from the occasional handful of wheat thins, and probably partly from my body's transition from adolescence to more fully-grown adulthood. Over the winter break, I let myself enjoy holiday food because, I thought, it'll be gone by January and I'll get back to "normal." Which, according to one of those suspect formulas, is actually not enough.
I know it takes time for your brain to catch up with your body. I'm just appalled that I can be sailing along, thinking I'm doing so well, and then have a bunch of setbacks slapped in my face. I'm constantly doing "body checks" on my belly. I look in the mirror and there's too much ... dimension. I don't even want to get into the deeper psychological implications of that last statement. I just want to like the body I see in the mirror, and right now that's hard.