I’ve seen the 100s on the scale for a handful of one-off early morning weigh-ins now.
199.6.
198.8.
198.0.

But on my official Sunday weigh-ins — the only ones that “count” in my tracking — the 200s refuse to slacken their iron grip on me.

For six agonizing weeks straight, I have been slogging through this never-ending decade:
208.6.
205.2.
204.0.
202.4.
201.8.
And, must torturously this past Sunday, 200.0.

Look, 200s: it’s been real. TOO real. And NOT a pleasure. It’s time to move on.

Scale: you stay where I put you in your closet and you think about what you’ve done. You better have shifted your tired-ass perspective by the next time I see you.

100s? If you’re listening…

Enough already.

Enough flirting.

Enough teasing.

Enough stringing me along.

I belong there.

Let.
Me.
In.