Thursday, January 19, 2012

Toast, tatties, whisky = kilograms. Lots of kilograms.

I've never been obsessed about my weight, but this morning, while at the doctor's office, I stepped on a scale for the first time since October. October's number of kilograms was both pleasing in its double-digit numbers and also in the conversion to pounds. I attributed the weight loss to life without a car, in a flat sixty stairs from the ground. It revived sense of I-can-eat-whatever-I-want-because-I-walk-everywhere, like when I was nineteen and living in New York. The number was so pleasing, in fact, that I began to eat butter popsicles for breakfast. Well, that's not entirely true, but a few weeks in Italy was apparently not as good for my body as it was for my soul (despite walking fifteen miles a day!), nor are snacks of tatties and toast (slathered in Irish butter, of course).

In good news, however, the doctor's visit didn't cost me a penny, so at least I'm getting rich in my elastic pants.

I can't handle dieting because dieting is stupid, so I suppose it's time to start exercising. And exercise apparently means more than climbing 60 stairs twice a day.

I know I'm not fat, so please ... no pep talks. But I'm sort of bummed that my body apparently got used to walking several miles a day in a matter of months. I really like tatties, toast, and whisky. If only the Whisky Society was farther away...

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