I lost a pound last week.
I’ve lost weight before, sure. In fact in any given month I fluctuate within about three pounds, gaining and losing without anything conscious on my part.
But this was different. This time I lost that pound on purpose. Motivated by my annual medical exam, an upcoming birthday (a milestone one at that,) and a family trip to Hawaii coming this fall, I set out actually, finally, for real this time lose weight. For the first time in my life I’m counting calories. I’m already well-established in an exercise routine. I know my problem is food. (Well, it’s that and sleep. But I can control my food intake. I can’t control whether my toddler will wake up in the middle of the night.)
And I did it! I lost a pound last week! It was excruciating and glorious. I felt so empowered that I was able to DO this thing I set out to do. However, I mourned every calorie I set aside. When my oldest asked to make cookies this weekend I actually cried. His cookies are so good. They are not, however, made from fruits, vegetables, chicken, or fish. I would have to abstain. (Which I mostly did.)
For all of that work I lost one pound. I feel skinnier already. I’m certain my clothes fit better. And even though I think it’s inappropriate to comment on a person’s weight, I wanted someone to say I looked skinnier. That one pound was hard to lose and I have so very many more to go.