This is how resigning from the 200 Club feels:
- When I cross my legs at the knee, the top leg hangs vertical. It no longer shoots out sideways like I’m pointing at dinner.
- My arms drop straight down at my side. I guess they’re supposed to.
- I can’t find two of my three chins. (And I really don’t wish to track them down.)
- My eyes are actually roundish. I no longer look Asian.
- My wedding ring is in a drawer. No point wearing it for awhile.
- My eyebrows have grown back in. They’d mostly disappeared, which was sad and weird. Better nutrition seems to have an upside -- if only because it employs eyebrow waxers.
- I haven’t needed Prilosec, or Tums, since quitting meat.
- I now sleep through the night, undisturbed. And it seems I’m no longer a snorer. Dear God: My husband thanks you.
- I’m pretty much living in sweats, because everything else now requires a rope to stay up.
- When my back starts hurting, I can do some stretches to repair it. Fifty pounds ago, no way. Instead, I’d just lie around until my sore back healed. That was a whole lot of lying about.
- I’m no longer hiding out, hoping nobody looks at me. Now when people look at me, I assume it’s because I need to brush my hair, and not because I’m larger than an automobile.
- Strangers haven’t been rude to me since about 20 pounds ago. Can this be a real thing? Did strangers feel entitled to berate me just because I was huge? Because, yup, it happened. A lot. And now, not so much. I may become my own psychology experiment.
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Today's soundtrack: Sir Mix-a-Lot, of course. And the accompanying Dance Central workout.