I’ve been from Tuscon to Tucumcari

The question is not so much do can I see the numbers on the scale as am I willing to look? Not looking offers the opportunity of plausible deniability. Things certainly could not be as bad as they appear in the pictures which give me man boobs. (And by “pictures” I mean “mirrors.”) But once I stand on a scale, that is when things get real. It’s enough to make a person hum “Willin'” by The Band constantly.

But I know I have to face facts. I’ll be neither healthy nor happy walking around in denial-size 40-inch waisted pants. For the first time since elementary school, I can’t buy a pair of pants that doesn’t have elastic in them. [Editors note: something went very wrong with the subject-verb agreement in that last one, but we are too lazy to sort it out.] We’ve already discussed the strategy of the warm-up suit. In keeping with the Grandmother principle, wherein those who spend their money wisely get more, I got more!

Pappy dropped a bit of cash on me and my Sweet Lady that we might each choose a little present for ourselves. I chose a scale that I can see without the aid of corrective lenses. (To tell the truth, I could not read the old one with corrective lenses.) So, if I choose to open my eyes, I can see what sort of shape I am in. Plus I had enough left over for that ridiculous white get-up too. Allahu Akbar!

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