Sometimes I think I’m over it.
That it doesn’t matter how I look, or what size I wear, or what I grabbed to go from Chipotle on my way home from work because I’ve been pulling 13-hour days a few too many times this month, and sometimes you don’t even care that guac is a dollar more.
But sometimes I feel like I’ve been lying to myself all that time.
It can be any number of things that set the feeling off.
A glance down when toweling off after a shower, which even after all this time I studiously refuse to do, because the wave of sadness I get from looking at my new Buddha belly hurts more than I usually feel comfortable admitting.
Another goddamn rejection letter, when for some reason I really thought we were going to get somewhere this time.
Another lunch break sacrificed…
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