My bathroom scale, Weight Watchers tracking device, and various friends and family members have all noted that I’ve lost weight – 20 lbs. to be exact. Some of my clothes now fit more like garbage bags than rubber bands, and yet when I look in the mirror, I feel like I need some sort of treasure map to find exactly how I look any different.
Every part of me looks the same. Upon careful scrutiny in the mirror everyday, I note the list of unchanged parts of me – which is all of them. Chipmunk-like cheeks? Check. Hips so wide they’d be at home checking people during a hockey game? Check. Voluminous, Rubenesque thighs? Check. Spare-tire stomach? Check.
I’ve pored over my upper arms, checked my back-pudge so often I’ve got a permanent kink in my neck, and examined my calves so much I think I’ve memorized every pore, mole, and childhood scar I have there. If I thought using a magnifying glass might help me at all, I’d be tracking one down and playing Sherlock Holmes.
Maybe it’s just wishful thinking, but shouldn’t some part of me actually look like I’ve lost weight? Perhaps I’m feeling too entitled and impatient at this point.
But sadly, that’s not going to stop me from spending an excessive amount of time in front of the mirror, avidly seeking just that one noticeable difference.