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.
Life Can't Weight 
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