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This morning I am standing on my bathroom scales while looking in the mirror. The sudden craving for a breakfast of pity pie is intense. There are only six weeks before we make our 1300 mile trip home and I don’t want to go home plump! I want to lose lard before our vacation, but this stupid contraption says I’ve gained another pound.
The though of going home plump is torment.
It doesn’t help that I called my closest friend to make dinner plans during our trip and learned she is now a size three. I will never be that skinny. The ability to shop without wondering if there might be something more fitting in the plus area is my only aspiration.
I haven’t really placed a priority on load lightening lately. Actually, I have passionately indulged in gluttony and eliminated any exhaustive exercise since our move. My mirrored image of chubbiness mocks me with this reality.
John and I have discussed our frustrations of gaining so many inches this year. Although we are unhappy with our increasing blubber, there is a security in knowing our love for each other will never fade, no matter how hefty we become. While knowledge of my husband’s undying love is wonderful, the imminent fate of seeing my bulky image in vacation photographs threatens to dampen the excitement of our trip.
I think it might be time to try an extreme weight-loss agenda.
My past experience in various forms of mass reduction can provide all the information I will ever need to be somewhat successful in my desire to trim fat. Increasing and decreasing proportion is a huge slice of my adult life. For proof of a slimmer past, I can walk to my closet and observe an arrangement of clothing in a smorgasbord of sizes to complement my figure of the moment. At this moment, the selection is diminished to an unflattering section of the largest and most stretchable choices.
Despite my decreasing wardrobe options, starvation for six weeks is not on any menu I anticipate ordering from. Food is a delightful indulgence. I love the feeling of being full. Anorexia will never threaten me. I have difficulty fasting more than one meal.
As I pathetically stomp away from the scale with a nagging need to force my mood from depressed pouting to righteous determination, my bible lures me to come and dine. The morning light streaming onto the kitchen table illuminates a passage beckoning me to feast on beatitudes and woes. Although I don’t remember leaving my bible open to this area, it looks enticing so I decide to have a taste.
A bitter flavor stings my tongue while I attempt to chew on two meaty morsels. The first sections of Luke 6:21 and 25 (KJV) are very hard to swallow. “Blessed are ye that hunger now: for ye shall be filled” and “Woe unto you that are full! For ye shall hunger”.
Pity pie suddenly doesn‘t sound so appetizing this morning.
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