I have been lied to. Shamelessly. By someone (thing) I trust. And it was beautiful for a moment. Until I realized the absurdity of the lie. And the absurdity that the lie is so absurd.
I stepped on my scale yesterday and it said 129.
The night before I weighed 144.
For a moment I believed the 129. I used to weigh 129. There have been many times that I have weighed less than 129.
Then I had a child.
And got older.
And apparently fatter.
So now I weigh 144. And sometimes I creep up to 149. I really try to keep under 150. But damn, seeing 129 on the scale really did something to my brain.
Of course, I stepped off. Gathered my thoughts. Hoped for all sorts of impossible things, and stepped back on. 144. Yeah, that’s what I thought. And I’m OK with that. OK that I can eat brownies and weigh 144. OK that I eat french fries and cheeseburgers and weigh 144. But beginning to wonder, just wonder, if weighing a little less (don’t think I’ll see 129 again, but I think mid 130s is a wholly reasonable goal) and eating fewer brownies would feel better. I feel pretty good eating a brownie. I don’t feel pretty good trying on pants. I’m not sure I have decided which is the more important feeling.
Talk about a kick in the ass right before the new year.