I started exercising a month ago. After initially (and inexplicably) gaining four pounds that first week, I'm now four pounds down from my starting weight. So I guess I've worked off eight pounds total, but let's pretend that uptick didn't happen and just call it four.
It's hard to say for sure, though, because my scale is schizophrenic. I weighed myself yesterday and was pretty pleased with what I saw, so I weighed myself again. Apparently I gain weight just by breathing, because I was suddenly two pounds heavier. The same thing happened this morning, with a one pound increase. This happens all the time, too, even when I'm not shifting my weight around and curling my toes over the edge of the scale the first time I weigh in. I gained five pounds when I had one bowl of chili for dinner the other night.
What the fruitcake? If my scale weren't on the expensive side, I'd leave it out in the yard and wait for the neighborhood urchins to walk away with it.
Functioning scale or not, I have a long way to go. These are some of the unflattering fat pictures from our wedding that I never thought I would allow to see the light of day--and that was two and a half years and 20+ pounds ago. I wish I still looked like that--and these are pretty bad! (Click to enlarge.)
Those jeans don't fit anymore and my double chin is way bigger now.
Arm blubber. Gross.
Back fat. Also gross.
Baaaaack faaaaaat. It looks like an oozing tube of crescent roll dough.
I know, I'm being unnecessarily self-critical. But photos like these are what force me to be realistic about what I look like. Being mean to myself keeps me going. Nobody loses weight by making excuses about bad lighting and unfortunate angles.