Six pounds. Say it with me... SIX.POUNDS! That's a good number right? I like to think it is. Or, well, I did. Then I inevitably start to think, "That's it? 6 measley little pounds after all the running and NOT eating cake. And OH.MY.GOD.THE.NEOPRENE.SHORTS!" Why do we do that to ourselves? Why do we not celebrate every pound like we won some terrible battle? Call it something fancy like "The Cellulite War" or ""Operation Skinny Pants". Call it "Get My Fat Ass Out Of Fat Girl Hell" Doesn't matter. CELEBRATE IT! I worked hard! OK, not as hard as I could have, but harder than usual! I religiously fling my jiggly self down an imaginary hill (and up it too) everyday. I am eating healthier, which is funny cause I thought I was doing that pretty well already. But, there is always room for improvement. In everything, everywhere, in your life. I am actually starting to look forward to the run. Like a crack head I start to itch and twitch and I know it's time for my next hit! Kinda like my scale addiction/fear. I seriously have to stay away from the back of the house or I will be getting on and off that damn number flashing whore every second! Why do we obsess? Oh, because society says to be thin is to be beautiful. Well, F**K SOCIETY! I will never be skinny again. I know this. Birthing two LARGE children has taught me this. I am not striving for a size 4 or a 2. Because honestly, the chicks that fit in that are either REALLY petite by nature or have a habit of throwing up everytime they put anything in their mouth. I am working towards losing the beer gut. The cake butt. And the thighs. I couldn't think of a clever name for them. They are a thing unto themselves as it is. I'd rather not name them. When you name evil it makes it real. I am trying to get healthy so I can run with my husband. Play soccer with my kids. Take them hiking. I love being outdoors and being fat has robbed me of that joy. I mean really, who wants to see a fat girl climb a mountain?