I've completed week three out of four in my miniature experiment with going gluten free in an attempt to reduce my pooch. (I know the real word is "ponch", but to me the perfect word to describe my belly is "pooch".)
Friday morning, before leaving for work and undergoing my "Friday morning weigh-in" in the nurse's office at my school, I asked Erika for a prediction. She was noticeably reluctant to do this, as last week she predicted a two-pound drop and I had done no such thing. (I broke even, which I feel very even about.) She chose the safe route: "Well, I don't think you gained any weight". I agreed with her.
Alas, we were wrong. I gained a pound. The following are possible reasons why:
-I had three beers the night before, then promptly went to bed.
-I eat brownies every day in my lunch, and justify it by saying they're gluten-free.
-The hour and a half of working out I had done this week has created yet another pound of muscle on my already ripped body.
-A pound is no big deal; a person can sneeze and lose a pound.
-My flip-flops were deceptively heavy.
-The scale was off (my favorite excuse, as it can apply to anyone at any time).
-I gained it all in my boobs, which frankly were lacking lately anyway.
-Erika lost another pound (because she can look at a treadmill and lose a pound), and instead of floating aimlessly in the universe it landed on me.
-It's just a freakin' pound, and sometimes there is no reason why.
So Erika and I have this gift for occasionally getting down about things in our own lives but always remaining optimistic about each others; her response to the news was, "so now if you factor in the pound and a half you lost two weeks ago, you've nearly broken even!"