I take the last bite of five-day old grocery store Christmas stollen. It’s a good bite- candied cherries, pecans, cinnamon and frosting. I lick a smudge of frosting from my lips, swipe crumbs off my sweatshirt and sigh to myself. Ok, that’s the last of the Christmas goodies. Time to be good.
When January starts, I’ll buy salad makings and stop drinking wine and I will get on that treadmill! Those skinny jeans in the back of the closet won’t slide on by themselves. Wait, how many times have I said that?!
How many years have I talked to myself sternly and vowed to lose 10, 20, 50 pounds?
How many times through the decades have I announced at dinner that I am having half portions and eaten from a plate the size of a saucer? Or proclaimed that I want more green beans and absolutely no potatoes! I love cabbage! Why is there butter in the house? And chips? How many times have I moaned to my sister that nothing fits and I am not ever ordering another latte?
And how many times have I actually lost weight? The answer is many times- 10, 20, 50 pounds. How many diets, plans, vows, feelings of self-loathing, guilt, optimism, joy- all because of which size I am wearing or what the scale shows.
I was skinny as a kid, so I didn’t worry about my weight as a youngster. I started thinking about how I looked in high school. That was in the early seventies. So for forty-five years, and every day of those forty-five
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