I'm not counting weeks anymore...

...the math hurts my brain. Calendars and science are hard.

I've not so much given up as seriously slowed down. My impending vacation and my truly heroic intake of beer (it's SUMMER damn it!) have impeded what little motivation I have left. I go to the gym 6 days a week still, yes but since I go at 6 o'clock with everyone else in Portland it's really hard for me to do what I want when I want without the urge to punch some meat head in his face. Or short shorts. Seriously dude. Buy some damn pants, I beg you. After staying at 177 for two or three weeks I dropped almost four pounds in only two weeks to weigh in at 173.5 last Tuesday. Or Wednesday. I don't remember. That's only one pound away from my "official" goal but I'm probably going to keep going. I'd like to be solidly under 170 so when in the future (and for the rest of my damn life) when I get up to 170 I can be like "whoa NJ, chill on the beer and snack treats and head to the gym".

Many years ago I lived in Corvallis. I was walking down the street downtown when some Casanova yelled out his car window "if you drop five pounds I'd bone you!" and my first thought was disbelief: is this real life? I looked around and it was only me this Lothario could be hollering at, I was alone on the street. At first I was in shock that it had even happened, then I just started laughing. Five pounds? That was it? I can't really remember, but this was in the stage between the skinniest I'd ever been (about 10 pounds heavier than I am now) and the heaviest I've ever been (after a devastating time in my life and a move from Corvallis back to Portland) so I'm going to call that I was around 200-210 pounds. That's a solid 28 or 29 on the BMI, I was only a couple pounds from obese and this gentleman was only requesting that I drop five pounds?

I wonder now that I've lost 45 if I should look him up. I'm still the same asshole I was then, I'm just skinnier. But apparently that's all it takes to hook a man of car-hollering caliber.

The past three weeks (18-20)

...in which I'm still trying to lose weight but care less & less about the number on the scale.

5/18 - 6/6

And honestly I can't really remember most of the past three weeks. My life is gym and work with beer and friends thrown into the mix for a nice balance. This week has been all about the car accident and Operation: Fuck That Guy Up.

I started a new job on the 16th of May. One that involves sitting on my ass all day. That probably plays a part in my body's refusal to lose any more weight. I could also blame my shockingly high beer intake. But I'll blame the sitting. I'm still counting calories but I took a week off in there because I just got so sick of it. I also took last Saturday off because it involved two cookies, a giant tamale and five (yes, five) delicious beers. I know it wasn't the optimal choice for someone on a "diet" but I honestly don't consider myself on a diet, I never have. I don't restrict any foods because that's just stupid. My body and its allergies do that just fine on its own, thank you.

My gym buddy got married the Saturday of Memorial Day weekend and that was super fun. The food was amazing, the cake SMELLED divine but of course I didn't eat any of it, and the bride looked SO SKINNY in her beautiful dress. No calories were counted that day either, but as the photographer I spent all day busy busy busy with not very much food. The whole day was a blast and honestly I can't wait for her to get back from her honeymoon so we can start being gym buddies again.

I weighed myself on Tuesday and while I'm still hovering at 177.7 (for days now which I figured was lucky, but then the car accident proved to me how wrong I was) I can tell my body is super pleased with everything I've been doing. ESPECIALLY drinking beer. And now it's almost the weekend again and the sun's supposed to be shining the whole time and I'm pretty sure that means friends, beer and books. And no gym.

I knew I shouldn't have bought that boat...

I didn't buy a boat. But it's like in all those cheesy 80s movies (McBAAAAIIIINNN!! A movie within a tv show, I know) when the cop is about to retire and he only has two payments left on his boat/house/RV and then he gets gunned down and everything is ruined?! Okay, that didn't exactly happen to me, but I only have two payments (maybe three...) left on Jack and BAM someone hit me on my way to the gym today. Right in front of my gym actually. So that was probably the best part, at least there were supportive people on my side right there, if it had been anywhere else I'd be stuck alone on a street corner with the wind blowing my skirt up. So... any other Monday night. Nah, I kid.

It was already a rough day at work, my newly minted office job has me realizing what Office Space and Garfield were really all about. As much as I love it there, Mondays really do suck! It's not just a cliche! All I wanted was a beer or some serious cardio. Since I had been drinking since Thursday my obvious choice for weight loss was cardio. I was just driving along, singing to my heart's content (Jebus I love Adele) when BAM the aforementioned hitting of my car. Jack didn't deserve it. He tries so hard (no he doesn't) and to be taken down in his prime (it's not his prime) is just a travesty and a disgrace. Plus he looks like trailer trash now!

Bastard McGee of course claims it was all my fault. "Why were you driving so fast?" he yells. "Whoa," I say. I am NOT dealing with anyone's bullshit right meow. It's too much, TOO MUCH! So he called the cops. Wonderful, it's his fault, let's get the whole freaking town involved! First he claims I was speeding and he couldn't see me coming. You didn't see me because you didn't look. Then when the police arrived he told them that he was simply "repositioning his parking spot" and that I must have been swerving. Uh, no thanks. The cop takes one look at my car and makes a snide comment that pretty much negates Mr. McGee's whole story (stories). Love it. Score the first (ever) for Beaverton PD. I take pictures, my trainer/lawyer/insurance agent/life coach is there to help (almost as much as I think a beer would have) and even though I'm still worried I'll get shafted (and not in a Monday-night-street-corner kind of way) I know I'm right and I know Bastard McGee is wrong and I'm only hoping everything works out fine. It usually does.

NOW WHERE'S MY DAMN BEER!?!