Turn of the Century

I made it. I’ve lost 100.0 pounds.

At 7:50am this morning, I jumped on the scale, and there it was. 151 pounds. In fact, It’s really 150.9 or thereabouts, since the balance marker on the scale is a hair’s breadth below the 151 mark. I am officially down a full century, and I don’t care that pounds aren’t measured that way. Now that I’ve returned to losing weight—even though the reasons remain inexplicable (eating more? Exercising? Mercury went retrograde?), I am celebrating. I am down 100 pounds from my heaviest. I made it through everything and this goal is getting logged with something material. Open your wallet, Octopus-Mistress. Something Honkin’ this way comes!

For months I’ve been salivating about this moment. Usually when I thought about what the goal would be, it came in a small velvet box and cost a lot of money. At first, I dreamed up a sizzling diamond pendant equal in (diamond!) weight to the number of pounds I’d lost. When the number hit 90, and I realized I’d be plunking down several (many!) thousands on a rock, I backed off and pointed instead to a tanzanite ring with some diamond accents. Tasteful, beautiful, and rewarding from every angle. But then, I have my engagement ring and my commitment ring, and so where am I going to wear this (also expensive) bauble? I need to find something else.

But what? I need nothing, I want nothing, and I’m saving for a wedding.

Back when I was stuck at 153 and convincing myself to make goals other than weight loss, I ‘rewarded’ myself for my running by purchasing a pair of elite shoes. I realized as I put the first miles on those awesome sneakers that those shoes meant more to me than the sparklies. Me, who got certified by the Gemological Institute of America all the way back in 1991, just so I would know what I was looking at when I picked up a gem. I love jewelry, and I own a nice collection. I still retain that love, but now it falls more into fascinating beads or big, chunky pieces brought back from cruises by my dear, dear friend and future Mommy-in-law, Grandma Florida. My prized possession right now, apart from my solitaire, is a blingy watch that came back from Morocco. I’d been looking for a watch since 1989, and hadn’t found a thing that even tickled me. But this piece just knocks my face off every time I put it on. It’s a watch, it’s jewelry, it’s from someone I love, and I adore it.

But jewelry, especially gem-quality jewelry, just isn’t me anymore. I’d rather have an elliptical machine, or a weight bench with dial-a-dumbbells, or maybe a GPS watch, so I can venture off the path at the Forest Preserve and go running over the softer ground, and then let my wrist guide me back to the minivan in time to meet Lynda and DS at 6 o’clock.

I have some time to think about it, but not much. Now that I’m at 151, my last goal of 147 is totally in range. Howard is off the road now, and so Reddi-Whip gets returned to its original, more reasonable role of after-dinner, on-top-of-jello food. I’ve extracted the goldfish crackers from my diet and I’m razor-focused on sprinting toward the finish line: my finish line.

I have every reason to believe that I can make it down to my bottom. Four pounds to go, and miles ahead of me to burn those last few fatties off of me. We biked 18 miles today and I’m going for a full 6 mile run tomorrow. Heck, I might even see a size 0 before it’s all over.

No, I can’t count on that, and I really don’t need it. I am content to ignore sizes, sort of, so long as they’re all down on the lower end of the racks. The cut and the fit matter more to me than the number. Especially now that I can fixate on the scales. Just a few more to go, and then the real maintenance starts. And it’ll mean so much more to me, because this is my maintenance, born of my cursing and suffering and now, my joy at having nearly reached it.

One more pound and that big bar is moving off of 150 to rest on 100. I'm moving that bar backwards, and it is never going up again. I’m in a new century now. One free of size “W” clothes and winded walks to the corner and wondering if I could ever surface out from under all that fat. I got one hundred pounds of it off of me, and my sites are aimed square on those last 4. Don’t get comfy in there, fellas. You are goin’ down.

And so am I.

A the C(enturian)