When things get bad for my friends, I always tell them, “Every day is a good day.”

Even if some are better than others, there’s good to be found in each.

Yesterday was a dogpile. I ain’t gonna lie. Work was very busy yet non-productive. (The whole retrograde cycle has felt like that.) Ran into a lot of resistance with some folks on the payroll and off.

Had a really stressful experience at the grocery store and then a worse one trying to order dinner from the place next door.

Then I got into it with Islamic Caitlyn Jenner upstairs. I truly, truly hope his tiny terrorist ass gets to meet his 72 virgins sooner rather than later.

I’ve also been battling the scale. I was on such a roll. I knew not to talk about my progress. I knew the magic number I hit a week ago is the number of ultimate resistance for me.

Now I’m up FOUR POUNDS from it. DA FUQ??!!

I’ve never walked more. I’ve never eaten so damn many vegetables in my life. Sure, I’ve snuck in some chocolate-chip cookie cake from Publix (because Oh Mah Gah it’s so good). And wine. And Halo Tops birthday cake ice cream. Because, it’s my birthday month and therefore a long celebration.

So yeah. Four pounds. Fuq me running.

So where is the good? Well. It wasn’t an event so much as a revelation.

Everyone in my family died young and sick. They either lost their ability to walk or had an aneurysm in their brain or a spinal problem or who knows what. Every day faded into the next.

I watch the same happening with my mom. She cared for those people till they were gone. Now the torch is passed to me to watch helplessly and not be as active or happy as I want to be.

These scars run deep, by the way.

Anyway. I did something unusual. I took a moment to thank my body for working. For being a lot smaller than it has been. For being healthy and functioning. For all my limbs working and my brain firing and my skin trying to tighten up without pounds of fat to hold it up.

I mean, that’s pretty awesome.

I think it goes back to the weekend when I saw a girl at the beach who had clearly lost a ton of weight and was rocking a bikini. I thought she looked great and almost said so. But I wondered if she were self-conscious of the skin hanging all around, and thought better of it.

I don’t want that. Honestly I think most people look better fat. The “after” pictures I see on a lot of Weight Watchers profiles are downright gruesome.

I get to the point I’m at where I’m good, you know? All my clothes fit. I feel great. I have energy and I love all my cute little T-shirts just the way they are.

I’m feeling fabulous but not flabulous.

Anyway. I do want this weight area (sigh) to be the ceiling. I need for this to be my fat weight. Which means I need to get cracking on moving down, not staying put.

I’m stagnant in every other area of my life. My body, I can change, at the very least.

And I need to get better about telling my body how good it is to me. Perhaps it will keep responding in kind. After all, we are in this together, good or bad, for the long haul.

I owe it so much more than what I’ve done to it up until now. And with any luck, it will always be as forgiving as it has.

I have a friend who, when you ask how he’s doing, he says “Better than I deserve.”

When it comes to health, looking at my family and then looking at myself, I would have to say the very same thing.

Thanks, body. For everything.

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