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Sometimes boys have the right idea...

I stopped using the calorie counter when we left for our vacation in Italy (Bologna, Umbria, Arezzo, and Cinque Terre), figuring I didn't want to ruin the delicious food I was planning on stuffing my face with, and relying on the fact that I always lose weight on vacation (my theory is that I'm too busy walking around to snack). And we were really active on vacay, especially when scrambling up and down mountains to nude beaches in Cinque Terre, so I really wasn't too worried about all the gelato and pasta I was consuming (YUM).

But I was planning on getting back into the counting when I came back to London... That was the plan, anyway. But then we only had 2 days before we moved into the new flat, after which life was (still is) a blur of unpacking, buying secondhand furniture, and entertaining the friends who so wonderfully came to visit me but whom I so unwittingly told the first week of September would be fine (gah). So long story short, I'm still not counting. And my eating habits have been super sporadic– one night we'll have a salad with grilled chicken for dinner, and the next we're having pasta, Coke, and cookies. And chocolate. Always chocolate.

But the weird thing is, I've lost weight. I know, I know, it doesn't make sense. I mean, I guess it does because I walk a lot here, but I haven't done any exercise since I left SF except in Cinque Terre, and I was definitely eating enough to make up for it. We even had McDonald's our first night in the flat! So I wasn't sure, even though the boyfriend told me I looked smaller (well, he said I looked great, and I had to weasel it out of him that he meant thinner, and then he spent 20 minutes telling me he thought I looked great before, etc).

But then one day, it was cold, and I was lazy, and my legs were unshaven. And for the first time in over 3 months, I grabbed my old jeans (not the new, larger-sized ones I finally bought 3 months ago), and I gave them a shot. My boyfriend watched, practically biting his nails with trepidation about the potential meltdown to come, as I pulled them on, held my breath, and buttoned. HOLY CRAP. Turns out he was right when he said I'd move back to London and get back into my jeans. Of course, that night I took them off and I haven't worn them since. I just like dresses!

But I still wasn't convinced I'd lost any weight, because he wouldn't help me fix the old bathroom scale that was left here by the previous tenants. However, when we went on a little window shop at our favorite home store, Heal's, there were scales on sale, just sitting there on the floor, their little footpads just begging for a test-drive. The bf sighed and rolled his eyes, but the success of the jeans had gotten to him too, because he bent down to 'examine' the price of one of the scales and 'accidentally' left it out from the wall a little, then he held my heavy leather bag as i slipped off my Birkenstocks and quickly jumped on (he didn't avert his eyes, though, which earned him a slap on the pec) and then off again.

A quick iPhone conversion later, I figured out that I'm 5 pounds lighter than I was when I left SF! And that was in my clothes, with a belly full of latte, mid-day (which you know adds like 7 pounds)! So, in the end, after all that stress and calorie counting and gym-going, it was just living on my own again, and maybe a bit of distance from family drama and delicious California cuisine, that made the pounds come off.

Or maybe my muscles have just atrophied from lack of use. Seriously, I carried groceries home yesterday and now my right bicep is sore. And my skin feels a lot saggier, which sucks, but I'm trying to focus on the positive. I'll just get back on the Fatgirl Slim bandwagon and keep avoiding the gym and diets, and hopefully come winter (really soon) I'll be back to wearing jeans every day and my legs can grow a pelt and finally be warm!

Oh, and I still miss my gym routine, but I'll sort that out when we have a sofa and a bed. Priorities, you know.
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