Last night I stayed after work for a Happy Hour meet and greet event. I had come off of a long 24 hours of traveling and dealing with the loss of someone dear. I had three glasses of wine and was feeling great. I mean, wine always makes me feel great. Until the next morning when my head is pounding.
I got home around 8:30 pm and realized I was starving. So I did what any normal person who is kinda drunk and dealing with food and body image issues would do. I ate the rest of the ice cream in the fridge and ordered a pizza. Okay, okay…I also ordered the parmesan bread bites.
As I sat on my couch, dipping my slices into the garlic butter included in my order, I started to think and be aware of how my body was feeling. Sure, that pizza was AMAZING. But I began to feel the grease on my face and fingers, the folds of my stomach over my comfy pants. I began to realize how sad and weak and alone I felt in that moment but that each bite was filling me with a temporary sense of purpose and comfort. But then the slice was gone and I was on to the next.
It wasn’t until I spilled the container of garlic butter on one of my throw pillows that I realized I was lost. I was sad. I was unhappy. I had lost my purpose and was no longer celebrating my moments. I had not had any victories. I had not set and crushed any goals. I also realized that my stomach hurt and I had a huge piece of pineapple stuck in my teeth. It’s cool. I was eating alone.
I woke up late this morning and I looked at my phone to realize I had 10 minutes to get up and get my ass to my workout. I made a mini goal to make it because I had made a mini goal to get 4 workouts in this week. I was 10 minutes late and had to do 40 burpees, but I made it.
I also reached out to a few friends to find support with my recent bout of depression after being assaulted. But that’s a whole other post.
I stepped on the scale this morning and weighed 153 pounds.
It’s just a number.
It’s. Just. A. Number.