Run 21 Miles. Gain Three Pounds.

Clearly I'm doing something wrong.

So.  I ran 21 miles last week, including one 5K race and yesterday's ten miler.  And I did an hour of yoga.  This morning I get all nekkid and hop on the scale, expecting to see at least a little nudge dowards from last week's 197.8 lbs. 

Instead I see:  200.8. 

What the fuck?

Clearly I'm doing something wrong. 

I didn't feel as though I was eating any differently once I started running again versus when I was sidelined with the stress fracture.  During the ten weeks or so I was out, I gained about five pounds.  Now I'm up another three?  Man. 

I just kicked Aunt Flo's ass to the curb so it shouldn't be the monthly gift of gain.  I've been taking in plenty of fluids so it shouldn't be water retainage ("That woman saved everything!").  I've been eating....

Well, let's look at that.  I thought I hadn't been eating more, but in retrospect I've been adding a little extra and having a few smaller things here and there.  Several office coffee runs over the past several weeks get me some mochas.  Making the hamburger patties bigger.  Extra tater tots.  Going out to lunch more frequently.  A couple of post-run breakfasts that were bigger than they should have been even though I never have a lunch on weekends, only breakfast and dinner.  You should've seen the cinnamon roll Julie and I split yesterday.  Although the eggs benedict and hashbrowns I had with it were stingy with a capital S.  So it shouldn't count.

But it does.  At least in the long run.  My ass tells me so.  Hell, my breasts tell me so.  I am NOT buying yet another bigger bra. 

Today I started keeping a food diary again.  I loathe tracking my food with the heat of a thousand suns.  This time around I'm tracking through MyFitnessPal; my doctor recommended it and it's one I haven't tried yet so I'm giving it a go.  You can find me there as CilleyGirl or cilleygirl (at) comcast (dot) net.  And why do we spell all that out, anyhow? 

Cheers,
the CilleyGirl