250. The first threshold. I swear to God, last week I was 245. I have no idea how I jumped ten pounds. Well, okay, so it might have had something to do with the Chinese food, pumpkin pie, turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and the chocolate covered caramels I consumed while practically crippled by a random strained back. (Now that one, I REALLY have no idea about. This having been my first experience with back pain from hell, I would gladly go the rest of my life without going through that again.)
So, back to the first threshold. I made my first steps in making my way back into the 240s today. I took a Zumba class. And while it’s called Zumba, I will probably think of it as “Humiliate the rhythm-challenged fat girl by surrounding her with mirrors, skinny pretties, and placing her ass smack dab in front of a window that looks over a weight room filled with hot men” class. While I am sure this is the proper name, I can see why they may have shortened it. Who would knowingly walk into that?
I’m not going to lie, at one point while I was shaking my derriere in my best Shakira (okay, more like Shamu) fashion in front of the window, I considered bolting. My keys and water bottle were directly behind me. One quick spin move, and I could be gone (I was willing to sacrifice my towel). Who could honestly blame me? I’m sure some on the floor outside the class might even consider it a humanitarian effort worthy of award (cessation of cruel and unusual punishment is usually seen in a positive light, after all). But, then I realized it would only ensure my continued impersonation of Shamu, and that is just not acceptable.
So, I took a deep breath, and shook it with the best of them. Come hell or high water, I will face down the pretties, the mirrors, and yes, even the hotties beyond the window, all in the name of crossing thresholds. 250, you’re in my sights, and you’re going down.