About 10 days ago, I decided to get my rather substantial butt in gear and hop back on the weight-loss wagon. Or at least chase after it for a little while.

Two things were different this time:

1) I didn’t tell anyone.
2) I actually stuck with it.

Actually, #1 is not entirely true. I did tell one or two key people, but not for a couple of days, when I could say “I’m doing it” instead of “I’m going to”. I know that telling people is one of those tricks to help keep you honest, but in the past that has, for me, just added to the pressure, and the feeling of frustration when I feel like I’ve failed.

And being an emotional eater means… well… I’m pretty sure you know what it means.

#2 is significant, even for this short period of time, because for as long as I can remember now, these attempts have lasted for – wait for it – under 12 hours. I may feel psyched for days, but when I actually start, it usually falls apart by about mid afternoon.

You can guess how I feel about that… you can also probably guess what I do about it.

But not this time. I’ve been counting, I’ve been logging, and My Fitness Pal is my new best friend. I lost 3 pounds in the first week, and I’m looking forward to weighing in tomorrow.

But that’s not why I’m excited.

I was walking along the sidewalk on Friday, and it suddenly struck me that I felt like there was just a teeny tiny bit less of me inside my coat. Now, this is a maternity coat, and there’s still more than enough ‘me’ floating around inside it, but still, there was a little… less.

But even that’s not why I’m excited.

About 10 paces later it occured to me that it was 3 o’clock, and I was hungry.

Hang in there, we’re getting to the exciting part.

3 o’clock is my witching hour when it comes to the hungries. So are 4, 5, and 6-through-10 o’clock, come to that. And what I’ve learned (and occasionally need to re-learn) is that I need to eat something – something real and with staying power – so that I can move on.

Lately, getting caught out like this while I’m out running errands has meant a burger. No, not the healthiest choice. But satisfying, and available by drive-through while baby sleeps on in the back seat. I count the calories, then count the blessings that are calories-expended-by-nursing, and move on.

But here’s the thing. The moment the image of a burger floated into my mind, my first reaction was “ugh, I don’t want to put that crap into my body!”. It was deep, visceral reaction. It took me, rather pleasantly, by surprise.

It helped that I’d been skiing that morning. It helped that I was outside, it was a lovely sunny day, and I was about to walk into the second-best place in the world for impulse shopping: Farm Boy.  And so I picked up a tray of sushi. Now tell me, can any food-artist make a fast-food burger look better than this phone-camera snapshot of grocery-store sushi?

That funny feeling in my coat might not be real – I mean, I haven’t been at this long enough to lose a noticeable amount. But this craving for healthy stuff? That’s exciting.

I’m excited.