But it was the weight of my sale that brings this story to you. For the first time in maybe a month, I stepped on a scale. I did it to get an estimate of shipping costs, a la weighing wiggly dogs in Our Animal Friends at Maple Hill Farm. It works like a charm, of course, except for when you set down the bag and see how much is left.
In my case, about 7 pounds more than I thought would be left. Oof. And not the "suicidal tendencies and creepy stalker-dom masquerading as altruism" kind of seven pounds.
I've got a wedding (mine) to go to in a little under two months. The aforementioned Libra and I have tried gym memberships, wherein we attended pretty religiously for at least three months and did good routines that should have shed some poundage. Nope. Nuttin'.
I don't want to look like a man-sausage in worsted wool casing come July. I don't want to have to take what was a slightly loose-fitting suit (off the rack) to get tailored and find out it needs to be let out. Any healthy tips are welcome: I don't want the future wife's "something new" to be my seven pounds of central obesity.