I was feeling pretty good on Saturday.
I was going to Virginia for a party to celebrate my amazing grandma's 80th birthday. I was wearing capri pants that actually fit. On the tag of said capri pants is a number that begins with a 1. The shirt I wanted to wear wasn't quite dry, but the one I did wear looked cute and also had a tag on which the first number was a 1. It was going to be a good day.
And it was a good day. My grandma enjoyed her birthday party. I enjoyed visiting with everyone, especially my sweet cousins that I don't see very often. My parents were in rare form and posed for absolutely hilarious fish-face pictures (you know...that face that most teenage girls make in all of their Facebook photos). I came home feeling generally positive about life. My husband and I had a really nice talk on Saturday night regarding my new book during which he was extremely supportive and kind and loving and encouraging. I felt freaking GREAT after that.
That was until I saw pictures of the event. Then? I cried.
Because I've lost 92lbs. NINETY-TWO FRACKING POUNDS. Which is big and large and huge and actually an accomplishment. And in every picture? *I* was big and large and huge. I felt sick and ashamed and horrible. Just horrible.
How can it be that I've lost that much weight and I'm still fat as holy Hell? How can it be that? How can it be that I've worked this hard and still continue to work this hard and I'm still not even close to who I want to be?
I've said before that I never understood why everyone cries and acts all crazy on The Biggest Loser, but I'm starting to get it. It's taken me so long and I'm still so, so far away.