After Steve died in an accident in 1994, my weight seemed like such a trivial thing to be concerned about. I simply did not care what I ate or what it did to me. And so I packed on twenty pounds. Now here it is, fifteen years later, and I'm still alive and lugging around those twenty extra pounds.
Six months ago I decided the day of reckoning had come and those pounds have to go. Rather than go on some kind of exotic diet, I decided to lose weight by simply reducing the amount I ate. I told myself I'll take it slow and be happy if I lose twenty pounds in six months. Well, the six months is here and I have not quite reached that goal. As of this morning, I still have 3 1/2 pounds to go. It will probably take me seven months to lose the twenty pounds, but I'll settle for that. I can feel the difference and my clothes fit better.
The sad part is that I am still waiting for someone to say, "Hey! You lost weight." Last week I told Gerald (youngest son at home) I had lost sixteen pounds and he said, "You did?" He had not noticed, and neither has anyone else. I have come to the conclusion that either I need to lose more than twenty pounds or it has been chipped off so slowly the difference isn't noticeable on a daily basis. Maybe someday I'll run into someone who has not seen me for a long time and they'll say, "Hey! You lost weight." But if it doesn't, at least I have the satisfaction of knowing I stuck with it and there is less of me than there was six months ago.