Our unbeguiling, humdrum bathroom scale informs me that I’m
down an additional two, possibly three pounds. I wonder how accurate that is
since our house is sitting on a hill, making the bathroom floor uneven and
slanted. You can get quite a range of
measurements depending on where in the bathroom you place the scale. Every time
my bare feet are ready to brave calibration, I make an effort to align the
scale against the same two familiar—and now dear to me---cracked tiles.
The scale’s accuracy is probably further debilitated by
the constantly moving San Andreas Fault, a mere mile and a half from our
house. Who knows how much the Fault
maneuvers the scale.
The best indication of weight loss is being able to fit into
previously unwelcoming blue jeans that refused to zip no matter how blue you turned
from holding your breath. Last night I
wore a pair of jeans I couldn’t squeeze myself into a month ago. They are my skinny jeans, although I’m far
from being skinny.
Back in the days when I wore those jeans often, I was told
by doctors that I had a lot of weight to lose.
I’m nowhere near my ideal weight, but watching the pounds come off makes
my day. I also console myself with the
logo of More magazine, published
especially for the underappreciated and medically-slandered “women of
substance.”
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