Normal

Ooooh, I've been waiting to do this post for a while. Say what you will about statistics and their motivations, today I'm on the side of arbitrary, unmitigated figures.

I'm normal.

Yeah, I know what you're thinking and, frankly, that's uncharitable of you. But for the first time in my life since attaining adolescence I have a BMI (body mass index) that falls within the range of normal weights.

Translation: the government thinks I'm no longer fat. In fact, it thinks I'm no longer even overweight. I'd like to think that, overnight, this has eliminated all my chances of ever getting heart disease, but I'm no dummy, just a little high on the euphoria of it all.

All the months of privation, of chickenchickenchicken, of sweaty dreams of onion bagels seem to have done the trick. Oh, believe you me, there's more success to be had (when you've been doing this as long as I have, the idea of stopping before the end is anathema), but the successes from this point on will be in the normal range (and that's a 40 pound range, though let's not even joke about the absurdity of my hitting anywhere near the bottom of that range). Normal. Normal normal normal. Gee, I like the sound of that, and you have to believe that comes as a surprise to me, who has often prided herself on abnormality.

This trip has been the closest I think I'll get to traveling back in time. Every pound lost takes me back to the point when last I weighed what I weigh now. Want to know what year we're currently in? 1991. That's right, we're wearing flannel shirts chez moi and I think we also have a perm (sorry, Jamie). We're not even in high school. 2 more pounds and we're in 1990, and after that it's the great unknown (for the math geeks out there, the reason I wasn't "normal" then is that I was a little shorter). In 2 more pounds we're at a place never before, a weight that seems ridiculous to make past comparisons with because I was a child.

I know this is all far less interesting to you than it is to me, but thank you for letting me brag a little. It's actually less bragging and more shock. For while there's still tummy that needs toning and a waist that needs whittling, the strange person in the mirror doesn't look out of control. She doesn't look like someone who thinks a loaf of bread is a meal (though, god help me, I could mow a loaf of bread like nobody's business right now). This is unfamiliar territory and the view ain't half bad.

F U brisket cheese fries!