It comes down to a number; it always does.  Whether it’s age, weight, or in this case, the size of the new jeans I had to purchase today, I’m a slave to numbers and what they mean.  Over the past few months, I’ve put on 10 pounds.  I am getting fat; I feel it and see it without the help of a number on a scale.  I don’t care what the number on the scale ever says, but the number on the inner inseam of my jeans is quite another story.  So, I’m making my commitment public. 


I’m going to keep a hand-written journal of everything I eat, so I can again be accountable.  I will drink more water so I won’t confuse hunger for thirst.  I will eat lean protein.  I will not obsess over recipes and menus.  I will keep my mouth shut when I’m bored and only eat fish for dinner.  I will not eat 3 hours before I sleep.  I’ll reach under my bed and find my old inspiration journal, which originally helped me to lose 45 lbs.  I’ll always be a fat girl, but no one has to see it.  I will scour the pages of glossy fitness magazines, of bathing suit catalogues, and fashion bibles, scrapbooking every bit of inspiration I find.  I need to remind myself of all the things that taste better than all the yellow foods I love… like size 28.  And, only I’ll know because it’s for me.  I feel wonderful thin, and when I feel heavy, I feel like a hermit, hoping no one will ask me out.  Plans involve pants and inseams.