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 another.

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.


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