Couldn't Call it Unexpected

I ate too much this weekend. In fact I think I might have twisted my ankle falling off the wagon. Thankfully the wagon was going pretty slowly, as I didn't build up much real speed in the last few weeks, but I tumbled off it pretty solidly all the same. It's not that I indulged *all* my appetites or set myself back too far--I opted out of birthday cake not once but twice, for the the love of Christ--but I did let myself have a taste of chaos again, and I stopped being actively mindful about my food choices. But the weekend is over and I'm crawling my way back to the straight and narrow, bloody but unbowed. It could have been worse, and in fact usually is, as far as my indulgences go, so I'm going to avoid the cycle of self-pity and defeat that usually leads me to abandon a lifestyle change after the first bump in the road. I saw this coming, I know what it's about, and I don't need to let it stop me.

I don't actually feel too guilty, in other words, which I'm taking as a good sign, and I've done just fine getting back in control today. But I'm also getting bored. And that's a big part of the problem too. What I don't fully understand just yet is why I feel so much happier when I'm a little bit out of control. Because I do. Immaturity? Insecurity? Laziness? Or just something about my temperment? Or maybe it's purely sensory, which underscores again for me the fact that the only way to really evolve this experiment to the next level is to start adding real structured physical activity to the mix. I need to release something with exercise, as much to keep myself challenged and interested as anything else. But I'm really fucking tired and lazy and I just don't want to think about going to the gym or taking a long walk, and we're leaving for Hawaii in less than a week anyway, and there's all that work to do, and my time with my family is so precious as it is, and...and...and...ugh.