I once wore a parachute

My clothes are starting to develop some additional room.  My underpants are beginning to fit properly again.  My rather ample cleavage is starting to shrink (and not soon enough, might I add).  The bulge that some of my awfully crude friends would refer to on other people as a ‘gunt’ (not me, I would never use such an adjective) has started to vanish.  Even my double chin is slowly disappearing.  This is a very good feeling.  This is progress.

I’m starting to come around to the lack of downward movement on the scales.  Its a difficult mind-shift.  All our lives everything has come down to how much we weigh.  As soon as you’re born the first thing everyone wants to know is how big you are.  We’re weighed in school.  As a teenager I saw girls do things that you only hope your own daughter  (or son) never does, trying to be something, attain some image, someone thought was a good thing (actually, what is really different today?).  As you get older it’s all about what the feedback on the little window somewhere down beneath my feet provides.  It’s always about the numbers.  I’m tired of chasing those damn numbers.

I’ve been conquering the row machine at my local gym.  I’ve been determined.  Very.  I’ve worked my butt off to break my 8km personal best every opportunity I get.  So far, over two weeks, I’ve smashed six minutes off my time.  It’s still about the numbers (I’m beginning to feel a little Rain Man-esq at this point.).  The numbers in my life continue.  And I continue counting.

I’m going to enjoy counting what the Devil is going to have to pay out.



Shrinking - or not

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