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Update on My Fatness

I hope someday to have a post which reads:  “Update on My Six Pack” (which doesn’t mean my Heineken Light).  For now, this type of title will have to suffice.

Today was Day Four of eating as I have been prescribed.  Which is quite remarkable considering that two of the four days stretched over a weekend.  I can’t believe I managed a healthy eating ritual over a weekend.  A small miracle, people.  A small minor miracle. 
I am trying to stay off the scale.  Seriously trying
 But my obsessive, self-destructive personality is so accustomed to this morning ritual:
  • wake up
  • use bathroom
  • brush teeth
  • strip off clothes
  • weigh
  • curse myself
… I’m not sure how to get out of the scale cycle.  I want to know my progress. But lack of progress just ruins my day.  Yes, I know.  Measure progress by clothes fit, feeling, blah blah blah. Blah. Blah. Blah. (Blah blah blah). But the scale, oh the scale… it doesn’t want to budge.
Yes, my “fatter” clothes are falling off of me.  Which is great.  
In an effort to save money, I cracked open the giant Rubbermaid vault of “skinny” clothes (sizes 8-12), in hopes that I could find some scraps to wear to work.  
See below picture.  This particular outfit is hidden deep in the SV (the Skinny Vault), along with my bangs and red hair.
So as I am rummaging through the SV, I come across the jeans in the above picture. 
My self-destructive nature takes over.   I’m talking to myself like a crazy chick: what if i just try to put on the jeans… just to see how far they will go up my legs?  I mean, if they make it past the knees, that’s something…

I know full well that I was 25 pounds lighter in this picture.  I know full well that I am setting myself up to be furious for the rest of the evening.  
The Expert is upstairs reading Stella a book.  No one is watching me. I am safe.  I strip off my shorts and quickly put one leg in the jeans, then the other, and I brace myself for the pull/tug/scream/curse motion that is about to happen.
But something very strange takes place.
The jeans pull on up. Over my legs. Over my buns.  (What?) Then I pull the front forward.  I button. I zip. I blink.
I look in the mirror and I blink again.  (What?)  
And there you have it. I am 25 pounds heavier than the girl in this picture. Yet, I put on her jeans no problem. So I have absolutely no idea what in the world is going on with my body.  I officially give up.  
(But I bet you could hear me all the way on the West Coast squealing in my best Southern voice:  Oh Em Gee! I am wearing these jeeeeeans!)  


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