A Photo, a Milestone, and a Death Sentence

Up until today, I've been living in my Old Navy Diva jeans, size 16. Today I was able to pull on my Gap Long & Lean's, size 32/14. The shirt (size XL, Old Navy) does an ok job of hiding the muffin top, and the jeans are wearable.

I call this progress.

I've started a scrap book of things I look forward to wearing and doing when I reach my goal. I intend to grab a giant glass of water and race for the book when the going gets rough and I just want to throw in the towel and eat cheesecake. Or french fries. Or cheese fries. Or all of these.

I've also declared war on the 190s. No sweets, no treats, even if they fit in my caloric tally for the day, until I reach the 180s. I'm getting close. Very close. Less than 5 pounds, close. I'm tired of seeing that nine after that one when I step on the scale every  morning. It's so top-heavy and judgy. It smirks. Sure, it's not as belligerent as the 2 was at the beginning of my weight just a few weeks back, but it's only slighly less agressive. That fucking 9.

I want that 9 to gasp, choke, convulse, and die. I never want to see that bitch again.