Skip to main content

On the Scale, Off the Scale

I keep my scale under the bed.

Nothing symbolic there -- not like I hope it keeps watch on me, or helps the pounds melt off while I sleep. I just hate it and then I don't have to look at it except for the few times a year when I drag it's chipped, dirty visage out and stomp on it.

I seem to have settled literally 5 pounds heavier than before I had the Rabbit -- 2 pounds heavier than when my doctor weighed me for my first pregnancy exam. She said I couldn't have gained 3 pounds yet, but she didn't know how hungry I suddenly became after seeing the little pink stripe on that stick in the bathroom.

I did get back once -- when I stopped eating. Well, unless you count one bowl of Special K, a bowl of soup, an apple and 6 ounces of chicken every day food. I mean it is food. For a starving person. I decided I hated starving. So I started eating again and the 5 pounds stretched back out and say, "Whew."

I wish I didn't mind. But I do. More so because I am also noticing that other horrible side effect of getting older -- my skin is starting to get less elastic. Let's get real: It's just plain gross. It's like the 5 pounds that I used to have somehow stayed sucked against me like some invisible Lycra was at work. Now it's more like what happens when your underwear spends too many cycles in the dryer.

Don't get me wrong. We're not pooling around the ankles yet. Just that my back looks a little soft. I went to the store last week and bought some free weights (I actually used to lift weights in college -- for one semester with the weight lifting team at 8 am. And no it was hardly a pick-up attempt on my end. Just another example of my taking the hardest road possible...). I am going to do some back work. I don't expect my skin to turn to Lycra. Or my weight to melt away. But at least I can feel like I am fighting. If 6 minutes a day counts...


Sugarmama said…
Weight lifting feels very good. I'm trying to get to a place where I can calmly and serenely accept that I no longer have the body I had in my 20's--which, if it wasn't magazine perfect, was at least firm and perky and smooth. Trying, but not yet succeeding, I'm afraid. No advice here, but lots of commiseration.
Anonymous said…
I love the blog that you have. I was wondering if you would link my blog to yours and in return I would do the same for your blog. If you want to, my site name is American Legends and the URL is:

If you want to do this just go to my blog and in one of the comments just write your blog name and the URL and I will add it to my site.


Popular posts from this blog

Apologies for being incommunicado this week and hope none of you out there are too distraught not to be receiving the usual almost-daily MotV missives. The reason for the silence is that I'm up to my neck, metaphorically-speaking, in research papers for my first grad course assessment. This experience has made me realise how rigorously un-academic I am in my thinking. It has also illuminated how reliant I am on red wine in order to get through endless evenings typing furiously on my laptop, not to mention the fueling of increasingly colorful curses that I feel obliged to aim at the University's online library system which consistently refuses to spit out any of the journals I'm desperate for (I refuse to believe this is 100% due to my technical incompetence...)Oh well, if this is the price one has to pay in order to realize a long-cherished dream then it's not all that bad... No one ever said a mid-life career change would be easy. Wish me luck!

Recommended & the Mahiki dance-off

My GFs and I went to Mahiki last night, great fun as usual but made me feel a bit old; it seems that Thursday night is the playground of the just-past-pubescent. Oh well. Good tunes though, so whatever.In between taking over the dancefloor - the youngsters may have youth on their side but frankly that shrinks to insignificance in the face of two decades of clubbing experience - one of my GFs and I got into a conversation about why so many people are full of bull.It appears that many people we come across are content to live their lives in a superficial way, skimming the surface of what life has to offer and equating the ownership of stuff (cars, houses, boats, jewelry, designer clothes) with happiness. They converse in terms of status, strut their possessions as a measure of their own self-worth, take themselves far too seriously, are quick to judge others, easily annoyed, complain a lot about very little and their worries seem to far outweigh their joys. Personally, I think all that…


Following on from the realisation that my lungs are filthy and if I don't give up the smokes soon I face a life of wheezing at best, off I trotted to see the charming Dr T.

Dr T, who's charming by virtue of the fact that he's less jaded than the other doctors in the surgery (in other words, he treats patients as if they're human beings with a right to NHS services rather than annoying fraudsters trying to gain sympathy for imaginary illnesses) promptly put me on potentially habit-forming drugs to get me off the evil weed. Something doesn't feel quite right about this but since I'm so pathetically grateful to have a doctor who's willing to give me more than two seconds of his precious time, I have acquiesced to his demands.

Anyway, this wonder drug is called Champix and promises to have me merrily chucking my smokes in the bin in no time. Or it will if I can get past the possible side effects, the highlights being abnormal dreams, nausea, flatulence, snoring, …