Jeri Thompson wonders: who cares if I only manage to lose 20 pounds a year?
It’s funny how a trip to the scale can turn a day around. Actually my whole week lays in the balance of where those tumblers land. Like lotto fever, I mostly lose that game.
I like to say that I’m losing the battle but winning the war. Who cares if I only manage to lose 20 pounds a year? I’m the one who has to look at my reflection in the mirror, I’m the only one who’s approval I truly seek. And my approval is hard won.
I fight a valiant battle. I even win a few, but when I’m staring down the barrel of a twinkee, I’m slain. Especially in front of the TV, I’m slain. Over and over again. But, that’s another post.
My hardest battles are fought in front of the telly in the evening. I’ve been a good soldier all day and then… then… At this point, it’s just on. Afterwards I must count my fingers. Usually there are no losses.
So I wait for the sun to rise and pick up my armaments again. I march forward, taking stock of my wins and losses. My strengths and weaknesses. I throw out the leftovers (are there any, ever, really?) and start fresh.
It’s then that I make plans to get outside on my Trikke, Black Birdie. And I carve. There is no battle here. Just riding. It’s that simple. That’s how I win my war.
- Previously published on Trikker Chicks.
About Jeri Thompson
