The Magic Number.

77. Thats just about the ugliest number I have ever seen in my life. Of course, I would have said that to any number that I didn't like if it showed up on the scales.

77. 77. 77. 77.

That number has been repeating in my head. 77. I before my lapse I weighed in at 74. Seventy-Seven. It rolls off the tounge too awkwardy. I don't like it. 77.

So, on Monday morning I wake up, terrified to get of the mechanical beast that humans call 'scales'. I wander in to the kitchen, and brace myself for the truth. I step on them. Then call my mother over to check if I was seeing things or not.

"I think they are broken." I tell her, slightly miserable.

She ushers me off, rearranging them so that the little marker shows exactly on zero, and tells me to hop on again. So I do.

"Seventy Seven." She says finally, and then looks up at me. "I wouldn't want to be you, getting on these scales. What with all of the junk you have been eating lately."

Wow. Thanks Mother. Glad to know you have my back.

Now, this has happened to me before on a health plan. Back then, I got told the number, was extremely disappointed, then ate some chocolate that ruined the rest of my day. This time I knew better, and I am incredibly proud of the way that I guzzled down almost a litre of water, and then went for a long walk to clear my head. I am not letting a silly number ruin what I am trying to achieve.

So, there you have it. The crappy number of 77, which is going to be used to see my progress for the next few months. I will never like the number 77, so that is why I will change it to a number more pretty.

What do you think about 60? I think it has a certain ring to it, don't you?