Check that out

So my personal trainer does this thing where, whenever he's near a mirror, he checks out his arms. Except he probably thinks of them as "guns." That's OK, I also think of them as guns, although I don't spend nearly as much time checking them out as he does.

It's caused me to react the opposite: I don't look in the mirror at the gym if I can at all avoid it. Why would I look? It's me, that's me, there. I know it's me; I'm in me. I look like I look.

I don't think he quite understands me. But then, I don't know any of the bands he likes, so we're even.

My kingdom for a bacon-wrapped date

Riddle me this: is it self-destructive to eat a pint of chocolate Haagendaz on the hottest day of the year, approximately 10 minutes before your period starts? Because a couple weeks ago, I found myself in just that spot. When I mentioned this at the program's goofy group therapy meeting, one of my cohorts gasped and said it was.

?

It's ice cream, not heroin. For God's sake, it's even got calcium in it.

In program news, I've lost weight and I'm definitely feeling better, but the program is still kicking my ass. This time around, change is happening so slowly, like the movement of tectonic plates. I'm a little more measured and a little less drink-the-Kool-Aid than my group therapy pal, which doesn't help me stick with the program. I find myself rolling my eyes quite a bit, and thinking, "Maybe I'm fine just the way I am." Who knew that would be self-destructive? Self-acceptance: the thing that is keeping me from losing the last 15 pounds. Huh.

But there has been change, good change: I can now get through a spinning class without wanting to die, and I find myself making good food choices more often than not, although there is still quite a bit of wine in those choices.

But shit, it works for the French.