I Am Losing The Battle Of The Bulge

I had a sinking feeling as the scale was tabulating my weight.  I fasted for twelve hours, but it still wasn't going to be good.  However, I sure as hell did not believe I would be at an all-time heaviest.

I thought that not having anything to eat or drink for half a day, combined with all the walking I did to and from the Twins Game, would help me somewhat.  It didn't.  If anything, I came down from an even higher weight, and that depresses the shit out of me.  I didn't think I ate all that much on Thursday, but I did a mental review: Had coffee at work, which I drank all day; there was that banana and croissant Father packed for me; then I had ice cream at Rosedale because it was warmer and more humid than normal; and then I had a hot dog and a souvenir-sized Pepsi while watching the Game.  Now really, would that pack the pounds?  Maybe not.  But I have overindulged when it came to food for many, many days now, and it all adds up.

Again, I could blame my parents about this, but I was eating nothing but my parents' food during the pandemic and shutdown, and I actually lost weight.  No, it's all the damn Coke I drink.  I'm sugar's bitch.

I am really saddened -- both that nothing I do is making the weight go away, and that I cannot accept that I need to actually do something to make the weight go away.  I need to make concrete steps to keep the weight off, and I know what I need to do: Eat less and drink less pop.  But will I?