Let me tell you how I felt about gaining a pound: Angry, frustrated, pathetic. Like a real loser (and not in the literal sense). Victimized. Like somebody who, through no fault of her own, was saddled with a wretched body and unforgiving metabolism. I cried. I yelled. I cursed. I spit on the ground. Then, I laid on the sofa and imagined myself snickering, ingesting a large bag of Bon Bons in front of a stadium full of trainers, nutritionists, family members, ex-boyfriends and Weight Watchers lecturers. I'll show them, I thought. I'll just be fat and happy!

After I calmed down, I realized that one pound was meaningless. I thought about the almost percentage point of body fat I gained and then I really felt bad, because that meant something. Namely, I'd better stop beating myself up and recommit to the process fast. So, I have. And for that, I'm feeling proud.

For Jill's Month 7 stats and seventh complete Weight Loss Diary entry, pick up the July 2002 issue of SHAPE.

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