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...