I was wrong.
I said that the number the scale showed me on Sunday was three pounds lower than the highest weight I’ve ever been.
But I was wrong.
I had to go digging around my past, trying to remember when it was I weighed that much. I have an issue with timelines. Was it yesterday? Ten years ago? I have no idea. I just know it happened.
When I found the date, my lunch jumped from my stomach to my throat. My hands leapt from the keyboard as if it was scorching me. I think I actually pulled off my glasses and rubbed my eyes to make sure I wasn’t seeing things.
I was wrong. SO wrong.
It was that moment when you’re out to eat and someone drops a tray of dishes. The whole restaurant falls silent for a moment until someone laughs quietly and someone else shouts the obligatory, “Job opening!” I heard the crash, but I’m stuck in that silent period, waiting for someone to start laughing.
I don’t weigh three pounds less than the highest weight I’ve ever been. I weigh two pounds more.
Someone tell me to calm down. Tell me I’m being ridiculous to let this get to me. Tell me it’s only two pounds. Nothing to get worked up over. Remind me I’m already making better choices, I’m already on my way, and maybe those two pounds are already gone forever.
Someone, please start laughing.