The Forbidden Fruits of the Vending Machine

I am weak. Metaphorically speaking.

I can arm wrestle the best bloke in the office with my left hand, but ask me to say no to chocolate or a packet of crisps after I have just scoffed a slimming world syn-free lunch, and I'm there with skates on. Super fast ones.

I'm sat at my desk, stuffed, having eaten a huge portion of leftover stew, an apple and a banana. I'm not hungry. I'm not even that bored (that comes later in the week generally). I do not need more food.

Consider then the reality of me wearing a pre-baby bikini in a body that is carrying 21 pounds of excess weight in just four short weeks. Postage stamps on watermelons. The prospect should send me screaming to the salad aisle. Why then, do I find myself excavating my purse for coppers to stop my body-brilliant plans dead in their tracks by shopping for the forbidden fruits of the vending machine? It's like I want to fail.

I started up running a few weeks ago, getting out three to four times a week for two miles. Not far by any stretch but enough to get my weight loss moving in the right direction. I've been so excited about getting back to my weight pre-Grace, even signing up for Daily Mile which tracks calories burned and miles run.

I started running to lose weight, not to fund more eating. What am I to do?

Eat chocolate. It's great for the soul.