I love numbers.

I love all sorts of patterns in numbers. For example, I love the time of day 12:34. I equally love 2:22, 11:11 and 4:56. All sorts of numbers with sequential or successive configurations. I love the numbers 22 and 7. I loved when a couple of months ago it was 09-09-09 on September 9th. I have a nephew, Cabel, who was born at 12:34 on 5-6-78! I love number puzzles and number problems. I even love when I’m listening to 6.10 AM radio and the clock says 6:10.

We used to set all our clocks a minute different, so that a minute later another clock would say what the other clock just said a minute ago. We would go from room to room saying “Lucky day!” when we saw a lucky time. I loved it. Still, to this day, when I see 3:33 on the clock, I clasp my pinky fingers together and say “Good luck, good love, good life!” And I actually believe that things are going to be great.

When I score volleyball or basketballs games, I look at the score board and see patterns and imagine it will might change the outcome of the game if there is a full house or five-of-a-kind up there. Sometimes when a volleyball player with, say, #7 on her uniform scores point number 7, I say, “Wow, they’re going to win, because they have lucky numbers!”

Bizarre, I know.

But it gives me pleasure and a little laugh each day, so I continue.

One day when Tracy was about 12 I accidently ran over her foot. [Actually she stuck her foot out of the car when the car was still rolling because she was in a hurry . . .] And a few minutes later after all of the excitement and scare of the moment, I looked at the car clock and it said 4:44. Yah, I said it: “Oh look, it’s a lucky day!’

She was furious for a while. She had just gotten run over by her own mother and ‘lucky’ was not one of the words she used to describe the event!

What does all of this have to do with ‘Weighing Matters . . . my journey to b.e.t.t.e.r?”

I know pretty much how much I weighed at every important event in my life. I weighed 123 when I was married to Barry. [Remember, he thought I should lose 10-15 pounds.] I know how much I weighed when I was pregnant with each child. Scott, 116; Tracy, 165; the baby I lost at 6 months pregnant, 150; Cameron 135; Stephen 160; Mikelle, 176. I know how much I weighed at my mother’s 85th birthday, 142. At her 90th, 148. My dad’s funeral 145. When I married Leonard 118. When I was raped 126. When I went to Hershey Pennsylvania? 125. My cruise this year? 149

Yah. It’s a sickness. To be sure!

My point?

Even though it’s quirky and silly, I want to remember these numbers. I want to remember how much weight has impacted my life. I want to remember how I felt about myself [and others – because it surely has affected all my relationships!] at a given weight and a given time. I want to remember how miserable I have felt when I failed to take care of myself and when I’ve neglected my health. I want to remember how good I feel today.

Today. 144!

I feel amazing!

Yah, still not to ‘goal,’ but pretty darn close. This has been a wild ride for the past 5 1/2 months and I never want to forget how long it has taken, how hard it’s been or that it’s been worth every single minute and every single lesson I’ve learned along the way. I want to remember that although it only took a couple of months to put on 21 pounds, it has taken 6 months to take it off. I want it ingrained in my brain every time I’m tempted to thoughtlessly eat empty calories and food full of junk, sugar or preservatives.

Because the tendency is to get to the goal and then give myself permission to be lax and forgetful and careless.

I don’t want to go there again!