I'm really going to subject myself to this godforsaken exercise...again?
Here's how I see this process: Every five years or so, I vacation on an island—a really large, nice, tropical island. The package I purchased includes one full orbit around the isle, with stops at decadent resorts along the way. I travel slowly, watching dolphins, buying cheap t-shirts and even splurging on some brand new nail clippers.
Upon reaching my original starting point, I am contractually obligated to return my yellow, convertible Mustang and return home.
After a long and increasingly uncomfortable stay on this tropical island, I maneuver the Mustang around a sharp corner and the road straightens to reveal the Avis rental office in the near distance. Okay, cool. I guess it's time to go home.
Thank you for suffering through my cyclical weight gain analogy.
I took the first step toward the 1972, 1993, 2004 and 2009 "me" yesterday morning, when I weighed myself. Oh Hostess, sweet mother of Ding Dongs, Ho Hos, Twinkies, Fruit Pies and Snowballs, I weighed myself.
I squinted down at a three-digit number which was higher than any I'd seen before. I'm quite familiar with this scale, so I'm able to position and shift my girth enough to take two or three pounds off the actual total, but I nonetheless remained in uncharted territory.
I'm sure that some have felt this rush of emotion as well, but please allow me to describe the feeling.
It's like slicing the soft skin under your middle fingernail because you'd forgotten that you'd stuffed three jagged metal Hunts Snack Pack chocolate pudding lids into your basketball shorts pocket right before bed last night.
It's that feeling when you believe you've finally kicked those hiccups, and...shit.
It's like that morning in a Portland hotel when I rose from bed, walked into the bathroom, peed and summarily knocked my open shaving kit into the toilet's pre-flushed yellow goodness.
Shall I continue? Nah.
I lifted my head and stared forward, feet still straddling the scale's wavering needle. My sole utterances were biblical in nature...probably because I now weigh the combined equivalent of (baby) Jesus, Mary and Joseph.
Who doesn't hate being overweight?
The thing is, it's not like I transformed into the blowfish who swallowed Hootie overnight. I'm just quite skilled at the art of excuse and denial:
"My wedding ring seems to be losing its elasticity."
"I keep drying these pants for too long."
"There's no way this t-shirt is a large. Typical Old Navy...cutting corners again."
So, here we go...again. Time to pick myself up off the ground and do this thing...again.
Actually, I could use a little help getting up. Thanks.