Unexpected

I've never been one to weigh myself regularly, but every once in a while, every few weeks or months, I do weigh myself and write it down, just to have a ballpark idea. There were a few years there where the numbers trended up, which was a bit depressing, but for the last two and a half years, it's been remarkably consistent: too high, yes, but staying within about a six-pound range. Even with the regular exercise I instituted in that time period, I seemed to be stuck there (which clearly didn't bother me enough to do anything more about it).

A couple of weeks ago, the Saturday before Carlos died, I realized I hadn't weighed myself in a while, so I got on the scale, and saw to my surprise that I had lost a little--not much, but below that range for the first time since, oh, spring of 2015. The odd thing is that I hadn't changed anything--in fact, I wasn't even exercising as much as the little I had been--so it was hard to figure out why it would happen.

Then, of course, Carlos died, and any pretense I had at good eating was out the window. More chocolate? Sure, why not. Buy this chocolate or that one? Hell, get both. Buy some ice cream and pudding, too. And after that, I went up to Maine for two days of wonderful food, which I did not hold back from. Thus, this morning when I decided to weigh myself again, it was with the full expectation that the pound or two would be right back on.

I lost another pound.

This is so weird! I mean, it is good news. But it's weird.

It does explain one thing that I had been vaguely wondering about: why my favorite jeans need pulling up all the time. They don't fall off or anything, but they slip down enough that I was wondering if they had stretched out or something. Apparently, it's "or something."