Give me a freakin' twinkie!

    A large cheese pizza, 7 bowls of Lucky Charms, a chocolate cake and a 5 gallon tub of vanilla ice cream! That's how I felt last night when I got on the scale. And of course, when you aren't happy with your weight.. what do you do? YOU EAT! EVERYTHING!
    While I didn't eat everything.. I ate a bowl of Total Whole Grain cereal.. I was incredibely frustrated. If I could have eaten my scale I probably would have just so it couldn't judge me. (Cause that's what scales do. They conspire with your shrinking clothes and JUDGE YOU.)
     Instead I pouted for a bit. Got snappy with my husband.. who doesn't love taking their own retarded frustrations out on their husband, right?? And then pouted some more. I was like a 4 year old in a toy store who couldn't get every single toy they wanted. I was being a total baby.
     Against my will, (cause there was a person holding a gun to my back) I put on my running clothes. I looked in the mirror and went and pouted some more.
     After sulking for about 10 minutes, I went outside with the boys and Thomas to watch them ride their bikes. I sat in the back of my car on protest. I wasn't going to run. I wasn't going to try anymore. I was going to hold out and just be miserable with myself because the scale was stupid.
     That didn't last long. I sat for about 5 minutes before I decided the heck with it.. I'm gonna run. I went inside and got my running schedule and picked out one of my brackets to do. I chose the Run/Jog bracket.
     In theory, this seemed simple enough to make me feel better about myself in my current situation and just long enough to say I exercised. The mission was simple: Run 5 minutes, Jog 3 minutes, Run 10 minutes, Jog 3 minutes, Run 5 minutes, Jog 3 minutes. A total of 29 minutes.
     In my state of emotional mess, I figured I could handle 29 minutes. That's nothing. I've ran an hour before - 29 minutes I could do.. with my eyes closed.. and my hands tied behind my back. THIS run would make me feel good about myself!!!
     I was wrong. 3 minutes into my first 5 minute run I wanted to die. I probably looked like an overweight dog.. foaming at the mouth with my tongue hanging out. Running. Was. Hard.
     When the first 5 minutes was up I was ECSTATIC to slow to a jog. While the 3 minutes only felt like 3 seconds, I gladly welcomed the slower pace. I ALMOST laid over in the middle of the road for the 3 minutes of restful pace. Eating grass to fill my sorrows was a great option at that point. However, I pushed through. I didn't walk.. although my pace in the jogging moments was probably slow enough for a walk.. but I did it. I ran/jogged all the times I was supposed to.. and even went a little farther to get in a total of 3.25 miles.
     At the end of my run I felt accomplished. Rejuvenated. Encouraged. And less fat, if that makes sense. It probably doesn't.. but to me it did. I was proud that even though I was ready to commit the ultimate diet suicide and hit the Ci Ci's Buffet, I didn't. I got over the number. Got over my funk. And ran anyway.
     My run ended in front of my house, I slowed down, looked at my watch and ended the timer. "Way to get out there!" it said. "You broke a record!" it said. "100 Miles Ran!" I stopped in my tracks. 100 miles. I've ran 100 miles. ME! I RAN 100 MILES!!! I almost cried and quickly brushed away the thought of eating cake to celebrate. Wow. What an accomplishment.
     At that moment, just like a million other moments before, I decided what I was doing was worth it. I was going to keep pushing toward the prize. I was going to keep myself moving forward. I would not be defeated by the evil thing we call a scale.
     I am more than a number. I am more than a pant size. I AM THE BOMB.