Alas, it’s 2:37am as I start writing this post, and Lost‘s final episode still isn’t available online.
But since I’m up anyway, I jumped on the scale and had a holy-cow-wtf moment.
Last week, you’ll recall (or won’t) I weighed in at 243 pounds. For the last month or so, I’ve been flitting tantalizing close to breaking into the 230s, but I’ve yo-yoed between being “just about there” and “not close enough.”
And I feel like I cheated: I didn’t have dinner last night. I didn’t plan to skip dinner, but after walking the two miles home, I walked in the door to realize I felt dangerously close to throwing up. Fortunately, this is nothing that can’t be cured by opening the windows, taking off most of my clothes, and lying on the carpet (next to a towel … y’know, just in case).
The scale read 237.5.
Yeah. The 230s. I came. I saw. I’m a quarter of the way to the 220s.
Yeah. You see that?
237.5. I lost FIVE AND A HALF POUNDS last week. (My total weight loss is 21.5 pounds).
I still think my scale is fucking with me. I don’t feel like I lost that much weight. As always, the true test comes when I pull my belt closed and pull it tight. Pretty soon, I’m going to have to start carving new holes into it (or, y’know, buy a smaller one).