The doctor laughed. “That’s what everybody says in January.”
As we walked to the parking lot, I turned to Ben. “We will not be eating again until March.”
“I’m going to search your car for contraband snacks.”
“We’re heading to the Y as soon as we get home.”
Panic fizzled before we pulled into our garage. In the past, panic led to the opposite side of beauty-angst: screw it; I’m going to eat what I want; who cares, anyway. This time something weird happened. Calm.
It was clear that my established treadmill/yoga routine would continue. Clear that weight had not caused my suffering, because those pounds remained exactly the same before and after the scale’s report. Clear that the cause of suffering was a number. A thought. One of a legion of thoughts that will rise and fall for as long as I live. Just like my weight.