Today it’s 45 degrees, mostly un-sunny and yet I feel the warmth of a peaceful respite washing over me. My skin has goosebumps as I sit here at the open window and listen to my kids playing in the yard, but my soul is warm and toasty. For now anyway.
Yesterday when I weighed in I was 3 pounds down. I couldn’t believe my eyes.
Since I posted Wednesday about a 2 week plateau, I spent the next two days receiving your amazingly supportive comments and emails, trying not to wallow, and oh yeah LOSING 3 POUNDS.
That slight change in the scale not only makes me feel excitment for being through this small circle of quicksand I got stuck in, but shows me that a plateau really is just that. A plateau.
Not a never-ending stretch of land that is desolate and long and disheartening, but just a flat expanse that I need to trust will end eventually.
The peaks and valleys of weight loss are so analagous with my own life that I am not sure if I should laugh or cry at my own irony. I imagine people with no weight issues must have their struggles too, but as a writer and a thinker and a bit of a tortured artist at times, this whole “art imitates life” thing is funny and ridiculous and difficult and beautiful.
Then again, so am I.