This week is perhaps the best dang week I’ve had in years.
Me and my scale are new best friends, because it told me I’ve lost 30 pounds since the new year. Husband still has bruises where I accidently landed on him while doing my victory jump-dance on the bed.
To celebrate this super-awesome event, I went shopping for new shirts. All mine either had holes, or were looking kind of blah.
I am not a big fan of shopping. Like many women, I have a hate-hate relationship with dressing room mirrors. I can think of about 67 other things I would rather do than try on clothes. Like go to the dentist…or clean the bathroom.
But with -30 pounds of courage, I took off for an afternoon of shopping, dressing room be damned.
After trying on several shirts, I could not figure out why they all looked so funky. It took me 10 solid minutes to realize that maybe, just maybe, I was trying on the wrong size. After rounding up a batch of smaller size prospects, I stepped back in the dressing room, prepared to be disappointed.
But holy guacamole, they fit! For the first time in 8 years, I put on a size medium shirt, and it fit for real. Not that kind of “you are so deluding yourself” fit; these shirts really fit, even if I bend over, raise my arms, or wrestle my heathens into submission.
Needless to say, I did the dressing room happy dance, then proceeded to try on about 20 different tops, just because I could.
Nothing like some sweet, sweet victory to make for a good week.