I stepped on the scale twice. I wanted to make sure it wasn't lying to me. After more than two weeks stalled out at 141-ish, I finally moved my number. Downward.
What made the difference?
I ate more.
When I was running with Leah on Saturday and I was rambling about food, I remembered reading some post somewhere sometime about someone who lost some weight by eating more food. And it made sense. While I know a whole slew of mid-life exercise fanatics who are armored with muscle mass, the brainless calculator on any given website sees Age: 40 Height: 5'5 1/2" then asks if I want to lose 1, 1.5 or 2 lbs. each week. Then it tells me how much I should eat. (This is the part where we ignore the fact that I'm studying to become a dietitian and should have explored this independently...in my free time.) Anyway, this calculator does not know that I have rock-hard thighs (carefully ensconced in a layer of adipose tissue). This calculator does not realize I have six-pack abs (which are hard to see because the eye is drawn to the freakishly unattractive stretch marks). This calculator does not know that my biceps are awesome. Luckily, I know that muscle burns energy at a much higher rate than fat, and while that first exciting week of watching what I ate and seeing the pounds drop off was really cool, my body watched that happen too and then decided that we were obviously running out of food so it very wisely opted to take a metabolic chill-pill.
After Saturday's run (which earned me more belly-up-to-the-buffet calories than I could stomach), I changed my plan. I'm still keeping my food diary but have upped my daily caloric intake by about 400 kcal. I will try to keep my fat intake somewhere in the vicinity of 50 g. My extra calories will come primarily from carbohydrates and maybe a smidge from protein.
And after just a few days of just a few more calories, the scale was very nice to me. I needed that, because Jamocha Almond Fudge had started calling again making a compelling argument for taking him back.