Full stop.

So, I’m back from dinner with my mom and sister, and nary a Weight Watcher word was uttered.  We all even shared dessert.  My sister, she’s good people.  She knows diet-talk is hard for me to hear, and I think she’s making a concerted effort not to trigger The Crazy. 

You know, any time I go out to eat, order what I want, eat it, then come home and don’t eat the contents of the kitchen?  Still feels like a victory.  During the dieting days, eating a meal that wasn’t planned or calorie-counted kicked off that blown-diet mentality.  I’d feel like that particular day was shot, so it didn’t matter anymore, and I should eat while the eatin’s good.  I’d graze through the cabinets, the pantry, the freezer.  Even if I was so full it hurt, I’d keep forking food in because I knew that the soon enough, I’d have to live with feeling hungry all the time again.

This evening, I came home full of a really awesome chicken salad and 1/3 of a brownie fudge sundae, and I just felt…full. Not like I’ve failed.  Not guilty or regretful.  My stomach is full and that feels comfortable and cozy, but more importantly, it doesn’t make me feel anxious or scared that this is the last time I’ll be full for a good long while. 

I’m not even heading straight to the treadmill to put in a hour or two of running.  I’m going to park my full, contented self on the bed with Little Dog, watch TV, practice folding origami cranes, and work on my list of three things to do this weekend that aren’t about my body.

Oh, and this is the third day in a row of general awesomeness — consider the streak started!