Another week.

Another pound. Of course, this means I'm exactly where I was two weeks ago ... but I'm trying not to look at it that way. No, really.

Meanwhile, I'm convinced my trainer is trying to kill me. I've told him as much. He laughs. And laughs. And says that means he's doing his job.

Grumble.

I'm frustrated.

OK. So, I'm trying to Do Something Good.
For my family.
For my dad, as well as the little family here that is Dick, Waldo & me.

Totally a win-win proposition.

And ... while I hardly expected it to be easy ... I fully expected it to be possible!

I'm not giving up. But ... ugh.

It's D-Day.

The June 6, 1944, WWII D-Day.

Which means ... Happy Anniversary, Marissa & Brian. (I'd put a picture up if I didn't think you'd kill me.)

:)

Dieting sucks.

Gained a pound back. How depressing.

Unfortunately, not surprising. This is the weight at which I've been stuck for a long time. I've been heavier, and I can usually (even without the very regimented diet I'm on now) get to this weight ... and then bam, I'm stuck.

My metabolism needs a serious jump start.

The only saving grace is that I'm working with a trainer who swears - swears! - that the program he's setting me on will, in fact, kick my apathetic metabolism into gear.

It all still sucks.