I wrote my original goal on the back of an old order pad two winters ago — a number I picked because it sounded sensible, not because I believed my body would ever get there. This morning the scale sat 1.6 pounds above it. I laughed out loud on the edge of the bed, which my dog did not appreciate.
Running a cafe is the strangest place to do any of this. I taste the soup at 10:40 every morning, and I've learned to use the small ladle instead of the big one.
The pastry case stopped being a problem a while back, but the day-old cinnamon roll at 5pm still whispers. Anything I taste goes on a sticky note by the register, and those notes have kept me more honest than my memory ever did.
The last stretch is quieter than I expected. I figured I'd be sprinting toward it. Instead I'm standing here with my coffee, watching the 7am rush, weirdly calm.
Anyone else find the final pound or two feels less like a finish line and more like a slow exhale?