I’m trying not to be obsessive and weigh daily, so I’ve made Weds. my “Weigh Day”. I woke up early today. I was a bit anxious and nervous. It was a lot like a first date with a person you really kinda dig, but are afraid to trust your judgement on. I had butterflies in my stomach. My palms were sweaty. The heart… she was racing.
I got all “Done up” for my date with the scale. (HONESTLY, the only 2nd date I’ve EVER gone to as unclothed as possible. I PROMISE MOM!) I felt shy and unsure of myself. As I looked in the mirror I THOUGHT I could see a difference in my face, maybe I was just seeing the promise of the hope and excitement I was feeling, maybe it’s actual visible proof. Really, I didn’t care which. I FELT better having noticed it so I stepped on the scale, a little lighter in my heart and step.
The numbers did their thing and my jaw dropped. That CAN’T be right!
I stepped on again and… the same result!
7 pounds? 7-Mother-Frelling-Pounds!!!?!?!?!?!? No. Way!
I have to admit, I cried a bit. It’s silly to get so emotional over a number, but that damn number has done NOTHING but go up over my lifetime and it makes me more than a little crazy. I don’t really handle this stuff well.
I calmed down. Wiped my face. Blew my nose.
I got back into bed with The Husband and curled up to him. He snuggled into me and asked where I’d gone. I sighed, just a little, and told him I’d weighed. We were quiet for a bit and he drifted off to sleep again for a moment. When he surfaced again he simply asked, “Well?”
I wasn’t sure how to tell him. Finally, I just blurted it out…
“7 Goddamned Pounds.” He frowned and looked a bit confused. Then I giggled helplessly…
“I LOST 7 more lbs. this week!!!! That’s 20 lbs down in a month!”
I was grinning like an idiot. He slugged me gently for being a brat then hugged me and congratulated me on my progress.