The Snack Bar

My workplace has a very well-stocked snack bar. By well-stocked, I don't mean it has a wide variety of items to allow one to make prudent diet choices while still satisfying their taste buds. No, it is pretty much comprised of the absolute worst "food-esque" items you can find, and vast quantities of them. The few "healthy" items present were purchased in a weak attempt to be a good alternative, taste like cardboard, and usually expire before they are consumed. The snack bar is a monument to everything that is wrong with the food in America.
 
I am drawn to it like a moth to a flame.
 
The joys I temporarily find in the sugary embrace of a cinnamon roll inevitably lead to deep pangs of regret, but I return time and again. I read the label and note the calorie content, but by that time it's too late. I'm already a lost soul. My will power crumbles in the face of processed sugars. I'm a weak man.
 
My lofty goals of losing weight before the new year have been replaced with the target of simply not gaining too much. So far I'm holding steady, thanks to a steady diet of trainer workouts and occasional bouts of nutritional sanity. I'm hoping that I can turn the tide before the end of the year, to turn that corner that allows me to control what I stuff in my mouth. I'm hoping to find the discipline to go back to regularly and reliably counting calories, because last time it was extremely effective when I wanted to lose weight. I'm hoping to get down to where I was a couple years ago, or maybe even a little lighter. I'm hoping, but that isn't the same as doing. Doing requires effort, and lately I've been less inclined to make it.
 
I hope that changes.

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