Dear Final Fifteen Pounds,
We’ve been together for what feels like ages. You joined me when I ate my way through two pregnancies. You stayed behind when most of the other weight fled, including not only the other pregnancy pounds but also your good friends “The Wine Fridge Ten” and “The Grief Eating 15.” We’ve been through a lot together, but I’m sorry to tell you that it is now time for you to go.
I was fairly patient with you over this winter, assuming that the cold weather was responsible for your lack of motivation to pack up and get out of my life. I figured when the weather warmed up you would start to move on. This spring I tried dropping some not-so-subtle hints, like upping my exercise routine to include weekly kettlebell class, 1.5 hour long sessions in the dojo, and increasing my running distance to six miles. You just don’t seem to be getting it, though. Like a houseguest who has knowingly overstayed his welcome, you have remained oblivious to all the little signals that I’ve grown weary of your presence.
And so it has come to this: no more Mrs. Nice Guy. Today I am serving you with your eviction notice. You have two months to get the hell off my stomach and thighs. I want you gone, and I am prepared to do whatever it takes to get rid of you. That daily dose of chocolate you rely on? It’s history, pal. The extra-big handful of raw nuts and dried fruit after a good workout? Get used to carrots instead. You think 6 miles is long? Let’s go for 13.1.
Get ready to feel my fury, you stubborn son of a bitch.