OK everyone, keep your socks on. Friday morning I weighed myself on the evil scale, ie. the one that reads several pounds heavy, and it was officially under 200 lbs. The last time I was under 200 lbs. was 1995. Course, the next day I weighed myself again (mostly because I enjoy torturing myself in the morning) and it was back to 200.2. But screw that. I'm saying under 200 officially.
I did expect for confetti and balloons to start dropping from my ceiling, like they do on gameshows when someone wins the big prize. Guess what? It didn't happen. In fact, my whole day went on just like there was not a momentously small number on my scale.
This leads me to two conclusions I thought I would share. One: somebody, somewhere, owes me some confetti. Two: IT REALLY IS JUST A NUMBER. What the nut? It didn't make a choir of angels sing. No one said, "Wow, you look like you are under 200 lbs! How does it feel?" My clothes didn't suddenly fall off my body. I didn't find a queue of hot men outside my front door waiting and wondering "Where the skinny Babe at?" The Wii still yells, "That's Obese" at me in an insane helium mocking tone.
And, frankly, I am still obese. Strangers just meeting me think that I'm chubby. I can't go to a fitness store and find workout clothes in my size (Damn you, Title 9! You just HAD to stop at a size 16 and couldn't go one more size?). My doctor wants me to get "into the 150's", and that is 40lbs away.
But I still had a mini-in-my-head celebration. A moment of satisfaction. A self-congratulatory pat on the back (where I now have shoulderblades). All the while reminding myself that I am not doing this for the numbers, but doing it for ME.