In April, as of this writing, on a gorgeous spring day, I can relish in having played more tennis than I have in months, beating a poised, athletic, much younger opponent in straight sets 6-1, 6-3. The last time we had played, I weighed substantially more, and barely squeaked past him in a tie breaker of a single set. Today I was lighter on my feet and although I had started to tire at the end of the match, I was never winded.

April was a sobering month. I had taken my weight loss for granted until - what's this? My pants weren't tight a week ago. Oh oh...

I had gotten more work, including several overnight shifts, so my biological clock was thrown off. Tired, I started to exercise less.

My weight in April only fluctuated a few pounds ultimately stabilizing, despite my indulging occasionally in dark chocolate and fine cognac.

By month's end, I caught a glance of my silhouette in the mirror and realized I had to face facts: I decided to resume the strict diet that had worked for me so dramatically in January. As of today, I'm down more than 28 lbs from my peak.