The last time I visited the doctor I was suffering from the same viral alien invasion.
I was also 182 lbs.
I remember feeling completely defeated, in sort of a knowing shock - "What? I can't believe I've only lost 15lbs of baby weight she says while eating an entire pack of Fig Newmans while watching Law and Order reruns on the couch."
It was soon after that I started the 30 Day Shred, documenting the ups and downs of the daily workout and weight loss challenge on a separate fitness blog so not to bore you with the exciting commentary "DAY 4: OMG I FEEL LIKE I JUST GOT FUCKED IN THE ASS WITH A LEAD PIPE."
So when I stepped on the scale yesterday, about eight months later, it stopped at 150.
Even the doctor noticed as he perused my chart. "Wow. You've really buffed up since the last time I saw you," he said.
The journey back to sizes of yore has been less about the cute clothes and smaller underpants, and more about feeling like the old "me" again.
I wasn't necessarily crying every day about the extra 35lbs I was carrying.
Okay, maybe I was. A little.
But I felt lethargic and weepy. I was moody and irritable. I was staring longingly at my old clothes and wondering if I'd really ever get back into single-digit sizes.
I know it shouldn't matter how many chins I have or how many sparks my thighs make as they rub together, but it does. My weight and appearance are indelibly linked to my self esteem and my overall state of being.
I am superficial and vain.
I am human.
So when I'm able to slide into my old clothes, I don't expect to be magically transported back to that woman I used to be.
I'm not sure they have a time machine that can accommodate three car seats and snacks and 14 matchbox cars.
But lately, I feel as though I've finally found that sweet spot, where the hair on the bow meets the perfect center of the violin string and the notes resonate and sing.
God, it sounds so good.