I would like to say it wasn’t as bad as I feared. But I hardly ever get to say what I like.

I spent most of 2008 shedding 50 pounds. It seems that I spent a good portion of 2009 piling 24 of those pounds right back on.

When I finally pried myself out of the fetal position that I curled into, I had to admit to myself that I already knew this to be true. I’ve only been wearing the same two pairs of jeans and one pair of khakis for months because I can’t squeeze my ass into any of my wardrobe full of pants. I can see the fat oozing over the top of my waistband and bulging through my shirts.

But numbers are scary as shit. Numbers bend you over and spank you hard. And not in a fun, kinky way.

And I fretted and I worried and I beat myself up emotionally for failing for the umpteenth time in my life. I ended up with a migraine.

It was so fucking hard to take this weight off in 2008 and I am so disappointed in myself for letting 2009 take me half way back to where I was.

But I abso-fuckin-lutley cannot go back to Weight Watchers. I cannot sit through those ridiculous meetings and I cannot log in every bite of food I eat and I cannot agonize whether I swam enough laps in the morning to earn the estimated points in a slice of birthday cake in the afternoon. Real people don’t live that way and I like to live like a real person.

So I have spent this week doing the best I can to make good food choices. No vending machine treats. No McDonald’s drive thru at lunch. But no tabulating point values for every step I take and every bite I eat.

And I lost two of the 24 pounds.