Seven.

It’s been seven months and one day since I gave up my 5.5 year diet.

Seven months v. sixty-six months.  No wonder the diet junk still rattles through my head every now and then, huh?

For some reason, I’m fixated on the 1-year mark.  I feel like, when I get to that one year mark, I’ll have a pretty solid idea of what size my body will be with normal (for me) exercise and normal (for me) eating. 

Right now, I’m a size 10-12 in my lower body, a medium in my upper body.  I’m very much rocking the pear-shape these days.

Sometimes I press my hands against the sides of my upper thighs and imagine a world in which my saddlebags do not exist, but for the most part, even in my undies, I think I look okay.  Kind of cute, even. 

Most of the time I eat exactly what I want in the quantity I want and that still feels alternately terrifying and joyful.  But the joyful moments make the occasional terror worth it. 

I still work out a lot, but I’m not making myself follow any plan.  Well, any plan other than, “Work out regularly lest the Crazy take over.”  It’s all about holding the Crazy at bay, not about burning X number of calories or running X number of miles or, my favorite, putting in 11 hours of cardio a week.  Really.  Eleven.  How did I ever come up with that one?

It’s all progress and I think I’m getting that, for me, body acceptance is more journey then destination.  I always have to keep taking steps along the road; I’m not just going to arrive there, give my bags to the bellman, and go lounge by the pool with a rum-based beverage. 

But at least it’s a journey I get to take without being underfed and injured all the time. 

That’s a win any way you look at it.