Wanted: Mojo from 11 Years Ago. Reward.

"I think there's more to you than just fat," said Putzie to Jan in Grease.

"Thanks," she replied with a combination of appreciation and indignation.

I stepped on the scale this morning at the gym, and realized that those four pounds I gained last weekend from one slice of pie, two light beers and eight onion rings are going to keep me from my 10-pound weight-loss goal for August. Aside from feeling miserable while I ran my 2-mile intervals in under 30 minutes, I decided that I was not going to check to see how much water weight I lost after I ran, even though I normally do.

There's more to me than just fat, I reminded myself. I can still kick out the jams, motherfucker. I'm teaching myself and mentoring other writers. I'm writing more and reaping more from it. I shook my debt anchor. I am me. Hear me roar my victory song.

But I seem to be missing one very important component – my mojo. Where exactly did I leave it? And why do I not have it now?

I'm the same weight I was 11 years ago, back when I was unafraid of it. I felt like a fucking goddess. I took a room by storm because goddammit, I was a woman to be reckoned with. Long, red hair. Long, red nails. I wielded my mojo with mad skillz, and had a boyfriend who loved that confidence:

"You're a sexy bitch," he whispered in my ear.

"I know," I laughed, throatily.

That was my mojo talking. And I'm going to find it again. No matter what I weigh.