Tie-dye socks: 1/10 of a pound.
Tartar left over from last night, I kid you not: 1/10 of a pound.
Finding out that all I lost after a full week of bread (liquid and solid) denial was a pair of kitschy socks and morning breath: Worthless.
Today is weigh in.
Yes, I know. You suspected, perhaps even downright feared I was one of those--overly and overtly concerned with my weight. And yes, I will tell you honestly. I am.
I'd like to say I've soared above the battery of Twiggy imagery, of bounce-back from baby bodies, of supertaut arms and powerlegs. Of hollowed checks and really, really wide smiles. Not so much, no.
So I weigh in dutifully. Every Wednesday. And today the gods smiled on my scale. Down 1.5 pounds from last week.
This weight last time I was pre-baby, wondering what the rationale was behind the ginkgo tree that dropped stinky flowers on my graduate school campus, losing fistfulls of hair over my first graduate paper, and drinking like an understudy for Barfly.
Before I accrued babyfat, this weight was the biggest I had been.
So it's a little minimilestone for me. I'm happy to be here and I'll be even happier to pass it.
I am drinking Madagascar Vanilla tea--and celebrating being 3 pounds less than I was last week--and 8 lbs. lighter than I was last year.
I feel like crap, and I'm sore from my Buffy workout fantasy of last Monday, but I'm also trying to calculate, using my very substandard powers of arithmetic, what 3 lbs. translate to in terms of space occupied. (Stoichiometry, anyone?) And write a blog at the same time.
See--the things you can do, the level at which you can multitask, when you're 3 lbs. lighter.
