Well, I’m officially my lowest weight in a decade. I couldn’t possible say how happy that makes me. Accomplishing something as… well, something as “simple” as losing weight fills me with a renewed sense of self in everything I do. Based on how many years I’ve been trying to lose weight, it’s obviously not simple, so approaching the finish line with a smile on my face is gratifying, to say the least.
Truthfully, my weight has not steadily been inching downwards—quite the contrary, my weight has bounced up and down like a Happy Fun Ball. I weighed more at the end of June than at the beginning. (Looking over the year’s data, I can see I weigh less at the end of every month, so I am making steady progress overall; thus, in the grand scheme of things, June’s discouraging data is really not so discouraging after all.) One thing that finally forced me to get back on track is knowing that my birthday isn’t that far away. At a rate of 1 pound per week, I have about 24 days to go before I should have reached my goal weight… and only 18 days to do it. Focus, dude.
What’s so weird is that I’m starting to get a perverse thrill from the faint hunger in my belly. I’m not inching towards anorexia by any measure, but when you’re eating only 1800 calories a day, you’re bound to have a perpetual appetite. It’s only through months of eating less food that I’ve developed a habit of living with less food. In January, I’d never have been able to withstand this faint hunger, but now my brain interprets it as a tangible reminder that I’m back in control of my waistline.
As Sara put it, “I plan on getting fitter as I get older.”
(Bonus: Today, I register only 22.8% body fat. That’s down from 28.9% on January 31. My end goal is under 20%.)