This morning, 205.5 kg on the scale. At home, naked, fasted. Later at the nutritionist's office: 208.4 — with clothes and shoes on. About three kilos difference.
She was pleased. Keep it up.
I wasn't quite.
Because a few days ago I was already at 203.2. At home, on the same scale. Three kilos below today. Just over 200. Almost the magic two in front.
And that messed with my head.
I celebrated. Not consciously, not by plan — but in practice. Cinema. Trip to Munich. One dinner out at a restaurant. A few days where I let things slide.
Four kilos back on.
Three days of celebrating. Four kilos back.
That's why my nutritionist suggested: we don't celebrate until 195. At my place, naked. Which at her office with shoes means about 198 — clearly under 200. Not before. No pre-celebrating at 203 just because it's "almost there."
Because "almost there" is exactly the moment I tear it back down.
I celebrate later. Not: not at all. Just later. Don't see the finish line during the run-up and stop.
So today: no restaurant. But happy I am anyway.