So two days ago while at the National Air and Space Museum, I got on a scale that tells you how much you weigh on different places in space… Jupiter, the moon, somewhere else and Earth… I don’t recall how much I weighed anywhere else but here.

334 pounds.

Yep.

334. In Earth pounds.

I’m not okay with that.
For all my “last fat girl standing” self-deprecation and “I’m gonna show all my rolls every chance I get” exhibitionism, yeah, no. 334 ain’t gonna fly.
Yes, I love me. And I’m mostly comfortable in my cute, fat, smart, awesome skin. But I need to do better. For me.

Me.

No, not YOU random judge-y person over there.
Nor all you fat shaming ones on THAT side of the room.

Life is short. And gets shorter every day. I’m 41. Sometimes I don’t understand how I got to be this age when I was just 14 years old and running the streets of Anacostia like some hormonally challenged banshee, but here I am, knocking on the door of 42, with a five year old nonetheless. I’m going to need to keep my energy and sanity in fighting shape for at least 15-20 more years, so no.

No to 334.
Maybe 234 I could live with at 5’10, but 334 is a wake up call.

And I guess I’m posting this because
1. I’m not ashamed.
2. I know I’m not the only one with a number that bothers them, no matter what the number represents.
3. To give myself some support and accountability.

So the next time you see me posting about the ice cream that we all know I love so much, say something. You have permission. And I appreciate you all for being all up in my business in advance.

It’s the internet. That’s what you’re supposed to do!