…and I don't mean Dallas.
And I mean that in the purest sense, that only one who only has themselves to blame can mean it. That whole eating crap and not getting off my butt has finally come home to roost and now I'm…well, take your pick of emotions: scared, angry, frustrated, terrified, mortified, self-loathing. You name it, it's all mixed into my gut somewhere, along with a never-ending supply of tears.
I've seen a dietitian who says I'll be right as rain as soon as I drop this pesky unwanted 110 pounds. The RN and I, however are about to come to blows. She's insisting upon medication; I want to try diet and exercise first (which was originally put forth as an option). The dietitian mostly agrees with me, but if the RN is being insistent for a reason (which she isn't sharing with me; trust me, I've asked), then I'll reluctantly start choking down pills. I just hate it when tossing drugs is the go-to, knee-jerk reaction. The high blood pressure meds that I was prescribed last November are known to be a risk factor for Diabetes (thanks for passing that info along, doc!) which isn't doing wonders for my desires to go back to the pharmaceutical factory.
My next round of appointments is in two weeks, so we'll see what happens. For right now, I'm just trying my hardest to follow the dietitian's plan, dig out my gym membership card from its hiding place, and…well, I'm not even gonna lie about keeping my spirits up. They're completely in the toilet, frankly. I'm not sure if it's a good or bad thing that I have just enough going on this weekend that will prevent me from crawling into a hole and pulling the dirt in over me.
I think Jimmie should win for me on Sunday; that'll make it all better, right?