Today was the annual girlie parts exam for yours truly. I don't know why I stupidly, stupidly, stupidly schedule these things for minutes after the holiday season, during which I subsist on olives, cheese, chocolate, cappuccinos, and refined sugar. I suppose it's better than last year, though, which was a flaming double-whammy of post-Christmas and post-partum (the Girl was six weeks old).
Chasing after two children over the past year has helped me shave off about fifteen pounds, though. It was delightful to step on the scale and, FOR ONCE, the physician's assistant didn't have to move the big blocky one on the bottom that goes up in ten-pound increments.
However, this did not stop my diminutive doctor from saying, "You lost a few pounds, but you need to lose more."
Since I've just been boning up on all that healthy/calorie/fat awareness in a fit of New Year's resolution-making, I responded, "Yeah, I know I need to lose another," I'm thinking fifteen or twenty pounds, so I tack on a few pounds to be safe, "twenty or thirty pounds."
"Thirty," she says firmly, and makes a note in my chart.
Gar. Thirty pounds. I mean, it's better than what she told me the last time, to be sure. But still, my daughter weighs nearly thirty pounds. And she's an armful. I grunt a little every time I scoop her up. The idea of losing the equivalent of a child from my body mass is daunting.
Well, time to go for a walk. And give up cheese and olives and refined sugar. Cappuccinos, however, are here to stay.
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