For those of you who don't know, and that would be those who don't speak to me often, I had a heart attack May 2011. May 2, to be exact. I've
written about it before. I was out of the hospital on Tuesday, May 3, so you could say it wasn't that severe, except that I got shocked twice, and if they hadn't busted the clot, I'd be dead. So it was severe enough.
When you have an event like that, it can induce a change of religion, so to speak. In my case, it wasn't literal religion but a reinforced knowledge that if I didn't take care of myself, the same thing could happen again.
So I started eating right. I was working out. With the encouragement of a portion of my several hundred FB friends at the time, I was posting my weight every day, and it was an impressive downward trend. I got close to my fighting weight.
At that point, I apparently declared victory and slowly, easily, settled back into the bad habits of a lifetime. And then this last Friday May 31, 2019, comes a reminder retro entry in Facebook from May 31, 2011 (fewer than 30 days after the heart attack): "I'm not going to post my weight today, but I now fit into every pair of pants in the closet."
Well, how the mighty have fallen since then. I recently had to let my belt out a notch. I weighed myself Sunday morning to start the New Regimen (again), and I'm not sharing the results. It was a good 10 pounds, charitably, over where I thought I might be.
Time to stop fooling myself that I deserve unlimited self-indulgence because I work hard. I might post some progress here and there. You guys are a wonderfully affirming bunch, and it really does help. The Goal: Get to fighting weight (between 175 and 180). I've done it before. The methods are easy, at least to talk about. Eat better. Drink less by looking at it as a reward for taking care of myself rather than something I deserve for bringing in the bacon. And work out more often.
The journey begins. Again. And in this case, the destination really is the important part.