The scale moved
The scale moved.
Am I happy?
Yes.
Am I satisfied?
Absolutely not.
Because while the number is going down… I’m still not 100 lbs, so clearly this entire process is taking far too long.
Patience has never really been my thing.
And let me tell you—being overweight and impatient?
That’s a special kind of torture.
I mean, technically… I have it easy.
All I have to do is take a shot once a week, complain dramatically to my adoring fan base (all 5 of you—love you, mean it), and watch the weight steadily come off.
That’s it.
That’s the whole job.
And yet… am I over here celebrating?
No.
Because in my head I’m still a slightly upgraded version of a cabbage patch doll.
Round. Soft. Mildly offended.
Most of me just wants to skip ahead six months.
Wake up one day and—poof—25 more pounds gone, and the mirror finally shows someone I recognize again.
And yes… I know that’s exactly what’s going to happen.
Eventually.
But I would strongly prefer if it happened immediately.
Instant gratification is my love language.
Then I stop for a second.
Because 55 pounds.
Fifty. Five.
That is… an aggressively ugly number for someone my size.
And when I really think about it—when I picture where I was—I immediately shift from complaining to grateful.
Real quick.
Because I won’t see summer at that weight again.
I might actually see a swimsuit this year.
A real one. Not a “let’s strategically cover everything and pray” situation.
And that changes things.
Because here’s the truth:
I may hate the shot.
I may hate the nausea.
I may hate the idea of exercising like a responsible adult.
But I hate being overweight more.
So here we are.
Complaining.
Losing weight.
Being wildly impatient about it.
Progress is happening…
Just not fast enough for my personality.
Still shrinking…
Still dramatic…
Still A Bri Too Much.
