Sixteen months, sixty-one pounds, and it ended the way most of my days end — me in the back with a mop and a radio nobody else likes. I weighed in before opening, saw the number I'd penciled inside a cabinet door last spring, and then went and made forty sandwiches.
The part that keeps surprising me is the boring stuff after. I can work a full Saturday without my knees filing a complaint by four o'clock.
My lunch is one small container I pack at eleven, before the rush, instead of grazing across the counter all afternoon. The broken cookies still call my name and I answer maybe once a week now, which feels like a fair truce.
I have no idea how to celebrate this without food being the center of it, so I haven't done anything. What did you do when you got there — something small, something silly, or nothing at all?