I got on the scale today. May I once again remind you that I am not weighing in on the home scale. As I'm house sitting in the booming Metropolis of Long Grove, I'm stepping onto a borrowed scale once a week.
This morning, I stepped up and it screamed, "Get the fuck off of me, Orca!"
It was quite a shock, because just three days previous it showed me down a few pounds. Today, it read 216.4.
216? Pount 4? Why do you hate me?
Now, granted, my life over the past week has been little more than a full-on assault of food. Everything tasty has been in my midst. Sometimes I've been able to turn away. I mean, there is a full half-gallon of ice cream in the freezer that remains unopened. I've done so much better than the version of me who ate everything that wasn't nailed down. And still ... I'm heavier.
Some of that is water. Biologically (and I know I'm oversharing but it's my blog, dammit, so away we go) I am heavier one week out of every month, and this is it. Plus, my doctor has me on a medication to help me not retain quite so much water, and I forgot to take it for the last two days. But ... it sure as hell isn't six pounds of water. Good GOD, I'd be sloshing when I walked if that were the case!
So I guess it's time to get a little bit smarter, eat a little bit less and keep up the gym protocol. Because I don't want to keep these six pounds. They piss me off. Little bastards.
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