So there I was, minding my own business at the local Target (I know, people are still doing that cute Tarzhay or Targét thing, but up here in the mean streets of Inwood, we refer to it as El Targhetto. Actually, I am the only one to date who does, but I’m trying to get it to catch on. Help a brother out). I was picking up some much needed, reasonably priced supplies, when I noticed they were running a special on bathroom scales. Not having owned one for a conspicuously convenient amount of time, I thought, “Why not?”
Well, I’ll tell you why not.
The number that thing digitally spat in my face shocked me more than perhaps it should have. After running down the Emergency Mental Checklist – “Are my floors level?” “Was I dropped from a plane onto this thing?” “Am I wearing my 12-pound underpants?” – I had no choice but to recognize My Wake-up Call. I mean, I’ve seen the signs. Occasionally I’ll catch a side glimpse of myself in a storefront window, forgetting to concentrate and sporting a full-on Jessica Simpson. It’s been a while since I’ve been carded anywhere, but the last time it happened, I was forty. (“OH MY GOD!!” the sari-clad woman behind the deli counter had screamed, somewhat out of character, I remember thinking.) So I’ve had a good run. But now that, barring a medical miracle, I have passed what will have been my actual middle age, perhaps I need to admit that my workout regimen of pacing, worrying, and talking back to the TV isn’t paying off like it used to. I’ve always been a late bloomer – my voice didn’t change till I was sixteen – so I get it: things take time. As for the corollary that time takes things, well, that may require some adjustment.
So I’ve been kind of good for the past few days (though I’m writing this from my local diner, where I pretty much just had The Butter). And this morning, when I gingerly stepped onto the scale, standing ramrod straight and willing an extra pound or two to float out the top of my head – and I refuse to believe I invented this technique – I discovered that I have miraculously lost four of ‘em. Not bad. Not great, by any means, but…sigh. “I wanna try!” trumpeted Chad (the gray one), so I picked him up, adding a svelte 9.4 pounds to our score. “See? We look great,” he sniffed, and went to wait pointedly by his dish. On the other hand, Mason (the brown one) wisely elected to skip the weigh-in altogether and just hang out under the bed. I’d have joined him – if I could have fit.