This morning, I was unlucky because that person was me and I flew through my basket in record time. Which left me grumpy and, well, grumpier; not a good way to be.
The trigger was my old friend, the scale - I swear it logs on to my blog each evening and if I have said anything regarding its decreasing output in my latest post it decides to frighten me the next morning with some kind of anomaly. I'm so on to you scale...I'm deleting your username and password...
After my weigh in everything was wrong, my coffee wasn't right, one half of my english muffin was too toasted and the other was under done, the butter was too oily, the milk was too white, Mr C was too lovely, then not lovely enough - oh man, my life is so tough people!
Have I gone through your basket now too?
I wanted to sit on the couch watch some sappy drama and eat poptarts covered in nutella. And probably cry a bit too. Or alot.
I thought about what Mizfit would say, and that Dietgirl would probably kickbox my butt, SkinnyLatte would totally back them up and want to shake sense into me, my dear friends would give me a heavy dose of slap therapy, even the bff would whack me around a little, the DragonLady would save all the cake for herself, give me tough love, and tell me to wake up to myself. Jillian would be so over me that she'd be speechless at my self dramatics.
So, after that session of self-help, I did some exercise instead.
I'm usually an evening exerciser so the change of pace instantly got me thinking about things other than how terrible my life had managed to become in one morning. I did Pilates - me and my (still-not-recovered-from-banish-fat-workout) abs clunked through; afterwards we group-hugged and left together with the glutes and the rest of the core feeling much better about things.