The Deliberately Unintentional Mom: The Pieces of Me: Fat looks better tanned.

It's the third week in January, and it's my third week on this here thirteenth journey down Weight Loss Lane. Conservatively I have attempted this every year for the last thirteenth years. Conservatively. No bullshit.

Salad or chocolate? That's a no brainer!

I don't know that I have been "fat" all my life, but I have struggled with the yo-yo of weight gain and loss. I think a lot of women struggle through this. My struggles are no different than the next person's and truth is I might not be struggling if I hadn't started my Mommy-Hood so early in life.

Maybe I would have enjoyed my youthfulness for longer. Maybe I would have learned better eating habits and workout strategies. Maybe I would have learned to combat stress without overindulging. Maybe if my aunt had balls she would be my uncle. There are a shit ton of maybes that change absolutely nothing.

None of those maybes count. What counts now are the number of times I have attempted and summarily failed at losing the weight and keeping it off. What counts now is that I am tired of it. What really counts, and I hate this part, is that I am fucking getting older. It's no longer as easy to get rid of the excess poundage. What counts is that my body is not cooperating with the weight loss. What counts is that I am trying my damnedest and I am not even seeing minimal results. What counts is how the hell am I going to push myself through this until I do see some results.

What counts is how I overcome my past habits and instill new ones.

I have been doing well these past 3 weeks. I have been exercising about 4-5 days a week, some days 2 a days. I have been trying to keep my step count above 10k every day. I have been counting calories and tracking what I eat. I have been weighing and measuring my protein (meat) and choosing fresh veggies and eating more of them. I have increase my water intake astronomically, and decreased my sugar. I am going what I am supposed to.

Then why does the scale fucking hate me?

That darn thing hates me. I think it's sole purpose in it's existence is to torture people. I bet in medieval times people were put on those balance scales and placed in the center of town for all to see, right outside the church- maximum visibility. They would offset the weight of the individual with rocks or mud which is where the term big as a house could've come from. They were balancing your fat ass with all the makings of a thatched home... so you were big as a house. Or maybe fat as hell came from there as well considering you were outside the church and only the devil could have made someone so gluttonous. (Oh shit... that is my Catholic guilt talking there. Ignore this last statement. My bad... I went a lil' overboard there. It's that Catholic self-loathing....deeply ingrained. Carry on.) That is my theory anyways....

Those numbers are my albatross.

For starters I can't get an accurate reading ANYWHERE in the fecking house. I move the scale from one room to the next, trying to find level ground, and I can gain and lose 7 pounds in the process. There isn't one piece of level tile in this here establishment. So I get on it this morning....BAM! I am 189 pounds! Nothing like 3 numbers to bring you to tears.

Tears. I know melodramatic. But when last week I had lost just shy of 3 lbs, watching those number creep in the wrong direction is heartbreaking.

Then I move the scale again. BAM! I am 187.9. Really?

I strip down to my bra and underwear. Move it again....186. Move it... 185. I figure if I keep moving it maybe just the process alone will have me shedding 10, 15, 20 pounds. Uggh. I am frustrated.

Look I just want a small victory. A pound or two. Something to keep my going and motivated. Something that let's me know that I am doing this right. Anything? Bueller?