Ten pounds. Finally. I've lost about half the weight of our typical Thanksgiving turkey. Jeans fit better. Blouses aren't so tight.
I'll try to maintain that progress as I travel to Atlanta today, but a couple of things are working against me regarding any hopes of weekend weight loss. For one, I fully intend to chow down on real fried chicken at The Colonnade. Portion sizes be damned. I'm going whole hog - chicken - on this one. New Yorkers are good at lots of things, but fried chicken ain't one of 'em. Not even Sylvia's in Harlem. So. Fried chicken is on the list - that's about 980 points, I reckon.
For two, Kate and I have a couple of appointments with wedding cake bakers tomorrow. It is my bounden duty as soon-to-be Mother of the Bride to test everything put before me. What kind of person would I be if I didn't make sure that our wedding guests have the most fabulous confection of buttery cake and gooey icing placed before them on The Day? The only thing I won't be able to test is anything involving chocolate, since I made a solemn pact with God and Liz about chocolate and Lent (a couple more weeks to go on that one). Wedding cakes? Bring 'em on!
Perhaps I can take off Monday and spend the day on a treadmill. Hm.