Fail

I succumbed.

Someone left half a bag of freaking candy corn in the kitchen, and I fell prey to its siren song.

I was poised to deal with doughnuts, with candy canes, with sugar cookies, even with those peanut butter cookies topped with a Hershey's kiss.

But how was I supposed to resist candy corn? That's Hallowe'en candy! I'd dropped those defenses for the year! And not just a handful, either. I snarfed so many of those little puppies that I actually feel faintly nauseous, now.

I'd track the points and chalk it up to a learning experience, except that I have no way to know how many servings I ate. Three? Four?

And tomorrow we're having our belated family Christmas dinner, and we're having both pecan pie and coconut custard pie for dessert. Coconut custard!

I'm doomed.

*deep breath*

One failure -- or two, or three, or even a dozen -- does not mean the diet is doomed. Deprivation is not the answer, and neither is defeatism. I had some of my best weight loss ever in weeks where I was indulging a little almost every day. This is not the end of the world, right?

Right. It probably isn't even as bad as the pizza and carrot cake and ice cream that I had at Gran'ma's house last week. I just can't let it become a pattern. I'll eat a healthy breakfast and lunch tomorrow before the dinner, and only the one piece of pie (not one of each!) and then on Friday I'll get my ass back on that wagon. I'll find healthier outlets for whatever stress is driving me to eat past the point of nausea. I'll go to the gym and work it off -- the stress, and the extra calories.

I am not going to be defeated by candy. I am certainly not going to be defeated by stale candy. Right?