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Don’t look at me that way

Every day for the last few months you’ve been giving me those silent dirty looks every time we meet. I know what your thinking, and I just haven’t been ready to accept the truth — to confirm my fears. Not that I really need the confirmation from you — I know. I can feel the difference inside me, around me. I feel my equilibrium off-whack. I’ve blamed it all on having the new baby in the house, but you and I know better. I’ve been indulgent. Overindulgent, and I’m paying the price. And for some reason, even seeing your presence every day is not enough to make me face up to facts and change my behavior. I’m close to facing the truth, but I’m still in denial. Actually, I am not in denial, I’m just too lazy to do something about it. Well, that all ends… soon. So yes, today I went to you, we touched. I asked you the fateful question, and you just stared back at me with that look you always give me, and I knew the gravity of the situation immediately.

I’m 237. Again. Damn you, scale. Damn you to hell

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