Six

I come from a family of six. That's a fact I've known all my conscious life -- for I am the sixth of that six. We were only all under one roof for ten-or-so years but during that time, certain patterns were set. Most nights for dinner (at 6:30 pm), we all-six sat around the dining room table -- Dad at one end, Mom at the other, Karen and Julie on one side, John and I on the other. For car rides, the elder three sat in the back (and fought over who had to sit on "the hump" in the middle), while I got wedged upfront between Mom and Dad. 

It's been forty years since we lived in that configuration. We kids all grew up and moved out, though a couple of us did move back a time or two. We added boyfriends/girlfriends/spouses/children to the mix. There was always change but it seemed gradual, just a natural part of life. And it most always involved expansion of our family -- adding on, not subtracting. 

I'd not given it all that much thought in many years, to be honest. I had a unique relationship with each of my nuclear family members and thought primarily in terms of our subgroups. But those five -- they were my original tribe. My pack. The basis and foundation for my understanding of family and of love. 

Even as my Dad was declining and the rest of us were communicating frequently and coming together to spend time with him and support my Mom, I gave little thought to our number. Not until I was putting together the photo collage for Dad's visitation did it occur to me -- that we were no longer six. And as we said our final goodbye to my Dad during his service and I wrapped my arms around my brother, my sisters, and my Mom, my heart ached with the full import of that.

My sisters and I took my Mom out to a movie tonight -- thought it would be good to get out for a bit. We went to see "Little Women." It was a lovely, sweet movie, featuring, of course, a family of six -- who then lose one of their own. 

The story would be sad and bittersweet regardless but it hit extra close to home this evening. A precious reminder of how profoundly we are shaped by our nuclear family and how blessed I am to be the sixth of the six.

We are no longer six -- at least not on this plane. But we will always be six -- my pack and I. 

Pringle

It's been exactly one month since we had to put my sweet boy down. I've thought many times since about coming to this space to write about him but somehow always found a reason to avoid it. I haven't been ready to do this because I know where it's going to take me, emotionally. And I haven't been ready for that - for a multitude of reasons, not the least of which is overlap with my Dad's seriously declining health. Call it denial; call it self-preservation. Whatever it is, it's been a month and, ready or not, I owe this to Pringle.

I did my research before we got him. I knew I wanted a rescue dog -- not a puppy. I was a single mom with a full-time job and often away from the house for 10-12 hours at a time. I was also fairly certain I wanted a golden retriever. Given their sweet disposition, I figured a golden would be the right fit for Riley and me. 

I checked out a few pet adoption sites and saw some cute dogs but none that really stood out. I heard about Dirk's Golden Fund and went online to check them out. They had photos of several dogs, all of whom were adorable and, I thought, worthy of consideration. And then there was this guy:

He looked...a bit scruffy. Forlorn even. His "story" was compelling. He was two years old. Per the website, he'd been dropped off by a breeder who'd deemed him "too small and too ugly" to breed. What an idiot. I paid a visit to Dirk's Fund that weekend and saw several of their doggies - including the little scruffy dude who'd been on my mind since I first saw his photo. He seemed very sweet. I brought Riley back to meet him - she fell in love - and so did he. That settled it. 

We brought Pringle home and he soon adapted to life with two girls and three cats. 

He loved to go for walks around our neighborhood.

And he adored our big back yard - especially when it was filled with snow.

(Remember that stupid breeder who called him ugly?!)

When we moved to St. Peters five years ago, he found another back yard to love.

And we were close to a park, which made for lots of great walks and frolics.

There were even more girls to love (and spoil him silly).

And David - who he clearly thought hung the moon. I'm not going to pretend the fact that David was the easiest mark for snacks and treats didn't play a small role in that.

But he loved him over and above the treats. 

Pringle was a happy dog. He had a spectacular smile.

I don't know that I ever got a picture of it but he had this goofy look he'd give you where he'd bare his teeth in an exaggerated grin. And he knew how to have fun.

But he also had his more serious moments.

Though a retriever, he wasn't much for playing fetch. You'd throw the ball and he'd go get it. Once. That was enough of that. His retriever instincts were primarily evident in that he couldn't stand to greet you without a toy (present) in his mouth. Usually, it was a stuffed animal. But if he couldn't find one fast enough as you were coming through the door, he'd snag a dish towel as a backup. It was so important for him that you know he was a GOOD BOY. 

And he was. He was such a good boy. As I alluded earlier, there were often times when I had to be gone for 10, even 12 hours. And he'd wait patiently until I got home, then run outside to do his business. In all the years we had him, I can count on one hand the number of times he had an "accident." And he never chewed or destroyed anything other than, occasionally, one of his toys -- and even that was over a long stretch of time. 

He'd bark when people and dogs passed by "his" house or yard. And studiously ignore other dogs when they returned the favor as he passed by theirs. He'd howl at tornado sirens. And he belched. Like a frat boy who'd just shotgunned a beer. 

He loved to be petted and had THE softest fur on the planet. And the sweetest face. Even as he got older, people would often ask if he was a puppy. My (annoying) nickname for him was "baby seal face." 

As I said, he was such a good boy. Except for that one time he got a wild hair while we were visiting David's aunt and uncle and ran off for the afternoon/night. It was a large piece of property -- some wooded, some fields. And there were cows on neighboring farms which I felt like were what initially caught his interest and lured him away. We searched high and low for him. Called and called. Listened for the jingle of his collar. Went knocking on doors at the neighboring farms and properties. All to no avail. We had to leave without him and it nearly killed me. I was certain he was lost for good. But he returned to their house, tired and muddy, at 2:00 AM with a neighbor's dog. They let him in and he ate all the cat's food. And looked appropriately contrite when we came back to get him the next day.

Oh, how I wished he could talk that day - to tell us of his adventures. 

But Pringle didn't really need a human voice to tell us how he felt. He had very expressive eyes and a way of letting you know what he needed or wanted most of the time. 

In the last few months, he needed to rest more. He couldn't really go for walks -- not very long ones anyway. And the stairs became a challenge. Sometimes, we'd play this game where we'd do several laps around the house together and THEN trot up the stairs. A few times, I had to resort to carrying him up them. He may have been on the small side for a golden, but carrying 65 pounds of dog up stairs was no easy feat. 

There were days he seemed like his usual self, playful and loving. And there were days he seemed tired and maybe...a bit sad. I suppose, on some level, he knew our time together was coming to an end.

I did, too. When we learned he had fluid around his heart in July, we knew the prognosis wasn't rosy. But he bounced back from that and did pretty well for a time. In fact, I'd just taken him in for a check-up in early October, and he was doing well. Then Riley called me one evening while I was still at work and said he'd gotten sick and seemed lethargic. 

He seemed...okay...when I got home. But he didn't really want to eat much. I was able to entice him with some of my own food. (Pretty hard for a dog to say no to Steak-Um, I imagine.) It was nice out, so I grabbed a glass of wine and sat out on the deck with him. He sat and then laid next to my chair while I softly patted his head and scritched his ears. He sighed a time or two. I'd like to think with contentment. 

I took him to the vet the next day. They had to keep him to run the tests. The vet called with the news after they'd drained the fluid off again -- his heart was in bad shape. It was probably time to let him go. I broke the news to Riley (and broke my heart in the process.) She and I drove to the vet's office and David met us there to say his goodbye. We patted and hugged our sweet Pringle and told him over and over what a good boy he was. We cried. And then cried some more. And then he was gone. Quickly and peacefully. He took a part of my heart with him.

My sweet, sweet boy gave us 11 plus years of unconditional love. He was a constant for me even when other parts of my life were a mess. He was a true friend; a sweet, fur-faced angel. 

I've kept his bed next to mine. His stuffed animals -- Mr. Racoon, Moosie, the Sloth, Ellie, and a few others -- occupy it now. Sometimes, I imagine him there, too. I hear a collar jingle, a soft sigh. And I whisper softly, "You are missed, my sweet boy." 

For the Love of Yogurt

I have a confession to make: It's likely this comes as no surprise to anyone who knows me, but I'm not all that great a cook. Oh, I've a few dishes I can do justice to -- but not many.

Mostly, it comes down to not having the time/opportunity to try my hand at it all that often. If practice makes perfect, I'm light years from perfection. (Don't even get me started on the time my darling daughter suggested I should maybe "take lessons from Grandma" after I placed her favorite-meal-of-the-moment in front of her. She was still little and awfully cute so I refrained from grounding her for that.)

That said, I do like to cook. And that was another of the appeals of the Mediterranean Diet. The book came with 28 days worth of menus and recipes -- most of which have been fairly easy to follow, even if they do call for a variety of ingredients I'm not used to cooking with. I've not stuck remotely close to the "schedule," but I have continued to try the various recipes -- at least the ones that didn't make me shudder in revulsion. (There are some, like the "Mussels Provençal" which are just not going to happen.)

Tonight for dinner, I tried my hand at the Spicy Carrot-Ginger Soup (It's billed in the book as the Day 11 Lunch but I genuinely have to wonder who has the time or the inclination to make such elaborate lunches?) For some reason, the recipe was designed to serve 10. Which makes zero sense since the rest of the recipes serve 1 or 4.  Eyeballing it, I gambled on quartering it.  Except that I didn't sufficiently quarter the cayenne pepper. I think I halved it instead - more on that in a moment.

The recipe called for carrots -- "peeled and roughly chopped." I used pre-packaged carrot chips (because I'm lazy) and freeze-dried ginger, rather than fresh (also because I'm lazy). The biggest question mark for me was the pureeing part. Everything heated up just fine in a pot on the stove but I was a little skittish about dumping the soup mixture into the blender. Ultimately, though, I realized trying to eat it sans pureeing was going to be a yucky disaster. So I gave it a go and it actually turned out pretty good. Nice consistency.

The recipe also called for plain Greek yogurt to dollop on the top of the finished product but somehow, the cup of yogurt I'd been saving just for that disappeared. Neither David nor Riley profess to know anything about it and it is nowhere to be found in the fridge so the only thing I can surmise is that I absentmindedly pitched it. I feel like I'd have made a mental note of that if I had since I knew it was called for in this recipe. But I've searched high and low to no avail. I did finally skim some off the top of a blueberry yogurt in the hopes of cutting the aforementioned cayenne fire. It sort of worked. And it wasn't awful, though it was a bit of an odd juxtaposition of tastes. 

Overall, it was tasty and something I'd try again -- with less cayenne and more plain Greek yogurt (or maybe even sour cream). I paired the soup with the recommended whole wheat pita stuffed with 1/2 avocado, kalamata olives, and hummus. Had the avocado been a tad less mushy, it would have been perfect. Guess maybe I don't need as much practice as I thought!

That Thing You Do

Hard to believe the movie is 23 years old. It's still one of those that I'll stop and watch whenever I happen across it. And there's no denying the title song is a huge part of that. Though the story itself is cute, and the characters -- or most of them anyway -- endearing, there's something utterly toe-tappingly infectious about the tune "That Thing You Do." 

So when I heard it playing in the grocery store this evening, it put a smile on my face and a little extra spring in my step. I don't normally do my shopping at 7:00 on Sunday evening but I spent the morning writing and watching church (on-line) and then heading to the ballgame with my sister (thank you, David!) 

...so Sunday evening at the grocery store it was. (Had to stock up on my fruits and veggies and get back into the Mediterranean Diet swing!) 

But here's what really made me smile: As I pushed my cart along the back of the store humming it to myself, I heard a man behind me cheerily whistling the tune. Then I saw another huge bear of a man in the dairy section moving his shoulders and doing a subtle little dance step in tune with the music. And as I wandered down the bottled water aisle, I heard a woman the next aisle over quietly hum-singing along with it. 

There aren't many songs that could have four different people (at least) dancing and humming their way through the grocery store on a Sunday night -- or anytime for that matter. But the sound of an imaginary one hit "oneder" from the 60's/90's seems to be just the ticket. And I don't know that any clip from a movie better captures such unbridled joy: 

Bonus points: To Guy (Tom Everett Scott) for knowing how to have a "Spartacus moment." And to T.B. (Ethan Embry) for something I never before noticed until just now - at about the 54-second mark, just as he and Faye (Liv Tyler) are bursting through the doors of Patterson's appliance store, he stops and wipes his feet on the welcome mat.  (Have I mentioned I love this movie?)
 

There's More to Fitness Than Meets the Eye (Diary of a Slacker: 50 Is Fine Edition)

Not surprisingly, my ambitious fitness endeavor of almost-a-year ago didn't pan out quite as I'd originally planned. I didn't get into the running as quickly/committedly as I'd intended and I certainly didn't shed 30 pounds -- nor even a dress size -- by the time I officially became AARP-eligible. Which isn't to say it was a bust. I have, in fact, made slow but steady progress.

I started running again in mid-August. Initially, outside. It didn't go all that well, though I kept at it for a few weeks. I usually found myself huffing and puffing by the three-quarter-mile mark and typically had to stop and walk a bit -- several times -- to finish out my just-over-a-mile and relatively easy/flat course through the neighborhood and adjacent park. I tried not to let that discourage me but then as we edged into fall and the sunrise got later and later, running outside in the morning became unworkable. (Confession: running in the early dawn creeps me out -- it's too dark and quiet out, and my overactive imagination alternates between a would-be assailant and a rolled ankle compliments of an unseen rock/gumball/tree root.) So, I gave up for a bit.

But I got back to it in October, running on the treadmill at the "Y". Which is a rockin' place at 5:30 - 6:00 a.m. Me and the geriatric set. (Not sure why I'm attempting to draw a distinction there.) I stayed with it, though, and even started bumping up my distance and then my pace. Then I encountered plantar fasciitis. Which sucks. On steroids. (Nothing like feeling like a ball-peen hammer's pounding into your heel.)  That set me back again, though I kept walking (had to keep up with those Fitbit challenges!) and running when I could stand it. I found this nifty little spiky ball thing at Fleet Feet that helped.

(That's not my foot, by the way.)

By the end of December, I'd managed to peel off about 10 pounds. Which felt good. I could tell by the way my clothes were fitting. Even my face and fingers felt thinner. (My rings are loose now.) I wasn't really doing much different diet-wise at that point. Primarily limiting liquid calories and just tracking my food intake consistently. Sort of informally trying to eat "healthier."

Oh -- and I added yoga to the mix, as well. There's a nice little studio about a mile-and-a-half from our house. They have a 9:45 am Saturday class which suits me just fine. It's a workout -- I definitely feel it in my muscles the next day -- but it's not overly strenuous. The teacher is great. And it's a nice opportunity to let go of external stressors and re-center. 

I stalled out in January-February. The scale was hovering consistently in the 151 range. But I kept running -- not nearly as consistently as I should be, but still trying -- and doing yoga. I even discovered that the mini-gym in my office building is an excellent place for an early morning run. There's not a soul around and the locker room/shower facilities are rather nice. I can shoot downtown at O Dark Thirty, ahead of much of the traffic, sneak in a quick run and then shower and get ready there and just pop up to my office. The trick there is remembering to pack my bag properly. It's an awkward day when you forget the curling iron or the hairspray or the vest you were planning to wear over your t-shirt.

I was feeling pretty good about the weight loss and work out routine, glacial pace notwithstanding. Then I went in for my annual physical in February and got some rather unexpected news: I'm pre-diabetic. Not terribly so -- really just over the line into what qualifies as the pre-diabetic range. (A fasting blood sugar level of 100-125 mg/dl is considered pre-diabetic. I'm hovering around 104.) There isn't really a family history of diabetes and, while I'm still a tad overweight, I've managed to get back to the "normal" side of BMI Land, even if barely. And, though I'm not running triathlons these days, I'm considerably less sedentary than in the past few years. Nevertheless, the tests don't lie.

I wasn't overly alarmed but the news troubled me enough that I decided it was time to do something more serious regarding my diet. I know several people who are big fans of the Keto Diet so I did some digging into that and quickly decided it's not for me. I'm fine with lowering my carbs some but virtually eliminating them altogether is a no-go. Plus, I know myself well enough to know that anything that's too strict or regimented is going to backfire on me. I looked into other diets and apps aimed at going "low carb."

Then I happened upon an article touting the Mediterranean Diet. I learned about the Oldways 4 Week Book and was intrigued enough to shell out the $14 or $15 it cost.  

The book's intro describes it best:

The Mediterranean Diet is not a diet, as in "go on a diet," even though it's a great way to lose weight and improve your health. Rather, it's a lifestyle, based upon the traditional foods (and drinks) of the countries that surround the Mediterranean Sea.

....

The Mediterranean Diet is all about cooking and eating simple, wholesome, minimally-processed foods, being active, enjoying delicious meals with friends and family, and (if you choose) drinking wine in moderation with those meals.

Did they say "wine"? Sign me up! (Yes, yes, they also said: "in moderation.")  

Upon receiving the book, I quickly read through the introductory pages, made my (lengthy and full of unfamiliar items like "farro" and "bulgur" and "dried lentils" -- okay, none of those sound particularly appetizing, I realize, but bear with me) grocery list, and stocked up as instructed. I began reviewing the recipes and mapping out my prep schedule. I knew going in there was no way I'd stick to a rigid meal plan but I aimed to follow along as closely as I could. That lasted for about four or five days. 

BUT...since then, I've continued to slowly make my way through the recipes and, in the process, developed eating habits that incorporate generous amounts of fruits, veggies, and less-processed food items. And olives. Lots of olives and olive oil. (Which is a bonus for me -- I happen to love olives. I tried to entice David into joining in on this with me but olives are a dealbreaker for him.) 

I got somewhat lazy with the running just as I was getting going with the diet. To my surprise, though, I actually dropped several more pounds. I dipped all the way down to 145.9 at the end of March but then bounced back up to 148-149. 

I've gotten back to the running again the past couple weeks. And since it's warming up and getting lighter earlier, have started running outside again. Which is so much more challenging than the treadmill. I'm still struggling to make it a mile without having to take a walk break. And my pace is back down (or up?) around the 11:30 minute mark. But I'm chugging along. (Or "chogging," as my Dad used to call it.) 

Today marks one year to the day since I got my new scale and began tracking my weight. When I got on the scale this morning, it read 148.4. That's 17.8 pounds below my high mark. Which means I averaged 1.5 pounds of weight loss per month. 

Clearly, I'm not setting any records. But you know what? I don't need to be. I'm 50. And I'm just fine. 

Goodbye, Little House

I said goodbye last night. Not to a friend or family member -- though it felt like that. To my house. In many respects, I said goodbye to it 4 years ago, when I moved out and became a landlord. Not that I haven't spent a fair amount of time tending to it -- and its residents -- since then. But I emotionally divorced myself from it to a large extent and, frankly, avoided thinking about it as best I could. 

I've been happy in my new home. And I spent a lot of time being unhappy in my old one. I did love it, though. 

I bought that house all by myself. (Okay. the bank played a role, as well, but I was the only one who signed on the dotted line.) We moved into it when Riley was getting ready to start Kindergarten. In hindsight, the purchase of a little-bitty house with a ginormous yard at the height of the housing bubble might not have been the best choice for a single mom with a full-time job and saddled by debt. I never had enough time or money to pretty it up the way I'd have liked. 

And, oh my God, the yard work. There were times when I'd end up with a dozen lawn bags at the curb. And it's not like I was good at it or knew bupkus about what I was doing. I just slogged through it as best I could. I remember a neighbor once remarking he'd never seen anyone spend as much time on their yard as me. What he left unsaid -- perhaps out of kindness -- was, "for such little return." One of the delightful features of my house was the fact that it was flanked by gargantuan oak and maple trees. Great for shade in the summer but not so great for growing grass. So mostly I mowed dust, with a little bit of grass thrown in for good measure.

Not that there wasn't plenty of maintenance needed inside the house, as well. Yours truly learned to install light fixtures, a garbage disposal and under-the-sink plumbing all courtesy of the little house that couldn't. The benefit of these adventures -- in addition to teaching me new skills -- was that they made for decent blog fodder. I'm no HGTV, but longtime readers of this blog may recall my many DIY tales. 

For such a small house, it came with big responsibilities, and I'll be honest -- I wasn't always up to the task. Still, it kept Riley and me warm and safe and cozy for seven years. Then it (arguably) paid for itself by gamely serving as a rental property for three more. 

But the time has come for us to part company. I can actually afford to sell it now, and I'm tired of being a landlord. So my little house will have new owners come Friday. 

I've spent the last couple of months sprucing it up to sell. Had it thoroughly cleaned, put in a new water heater, had the AC and furnace serviced, put in a new sewer clean out, invested in some serious landscaping. It looks a damn sight better now than it ever did when I lived there. Yesterday afternoon, it passed reinspection by the City of Manchester, so it was all ready to go. Except for the shed. 

One of the bonus features of my little house was the garden shed out in the backyard. It was fairly good-sized -- big enough to house not only the lawnmower and leaf vac, but also multiple boxes of stuff I should have thrown out years ago but never got around to. I couldn't just leave it there.  But I didn't really know how best to dispose of it either. Unfortunately, during this transition time, my trash service ceased and someone (presumably the trash removal company) removed my trash cans. I picked up one of those dumpster bags from Lowe's, but then felt weird about leaving a bunch of old papers and books and stuffed animals and such out at the curb like that. 

My Mom was kind enough to offer up my folks' trash cans as an option. All I'd need to do was cart the stuff a mile up the road to their house. (One of the other reasons I loved my little house -- having my folks close by while we lived there was a Godsend.) Still, I was dreading this task -- I knew all too well that mice and mold had been hard at work in that shed. 

I reluctantly made the trek back over to the house last night, multiple heavy-duty garbage bags and a pair of work gloves in hand. As expected, the boxes were covered in mold and mouse droppings. The contents were the same. One by one, I removed each box from the shed, set it on the ground outside, removed the lid, and gingerly picked through the shredded contents to see if there was anything that needed to (and could) be salvaged. 

One of the boxes contained old photos -- wasn't expecting that, as I thought I'd kept all of those inside with me. Most of them looked to be duplicates of ones I have elsewhere and most weren't in any condition to be saved, but I did pluck out a few of Riley as a baby and toddler which didn't look too sketchy. 

There was a box of old pregnancy/motherhood books. One of old greeting cards, notes and, sadly, the collection of business cards my former co-workers and I used to write silly quotes on when we were out drinking.  I contemplated separating those and attempting to copy/re-create them, but given their condition, realized I just wasn't up to the task. As it was, I had a mouse jump out of one box and scurry over my foot. I yelped loud enough I'm surprised none of the neighbors came out to see what was going on. 

The last -- and saddest -- box I opened was one which had stuffed animals in it. Some were mine, though most were Riley's.  "Bunniper," the large, lime green and blue bunny who'd been a mainstay of my childhood, and "Morgan," the dalmatian who'd kept me company in college and law school, were at the top. They were in sorry condition. There was no salvaging to be had from that box, though I did snap a photo of them for posterity. 

It was a very Velveteen moment. I've a lump in my throat as I write this. 

I removed and bagged up what I could, carted it up to my folks' house and loaded it into their trash can. While there, I snagged a Mic Ultra and returned to the house to sit on the patio and say a final goodbye.  

I sipped the beer and looked out at the large yard that I used to have to tend. I don't miss that. I will miss the deer visits and the quiet mornings/evenings sitting on the deck. A little. Truth of the matter is that the mosquitos usually chased me back inside fairly quickly. 

Inside, I took one last walk through. Said goodbye to my room, which doesn't look all that much like my room anymore since it's painted gray. Said goodbye to my kitchen -- which is one of the best things about that house. It's huge (relatively speaking.) 

I know it sounds weird, but I thanked my little house for being a good home. It challenged me at times but it also saw me through a lot. It was a good home. 

Goodbye, Little House. Thank you. 

Breaking Through (Diary of a Slacker - Fast Approaching 50 Edition)

So...I may have been overly ambitious in this endeavor -- in terms of exercise, weight loss, and certainly in terms of writing about it. (There may be a connection there.)  It's been slow going, with a bit of one-step-forward-two-steps-back thrown in. 

I haven't started running yet. I did purchase a new pair of running shoes (two weeks ago), but they're glaring at me from the closet right now. I aim to break them in this weekend. (Aim.) On a more positive note, I have been keeping up with the walking/getting my steps in. 8,000 a day minimum, which I've boosted back up to 10,000 per day the past two days. I did a rough calculation via the MyFitnessPal app and it appears that it takes approximately 23 steps to burn 1 calorie. If that is accurate, that means the extra 2,000 steps per day burns fewer than 100 more calories. Which doesn't seem like all that much bang for the buck, but it surely can't hurt. 

On the weight loss front, it's been verrrrrrrrry slow going. Weighing in every morning, I wouldn't expect to see huge drops between measurements, but there's been a good deal of up and down. Which wouldn't bug me so much on mornings when I know I over-indulged the day before but is extremely frustrating when I haven't. It's no wonder people struggle with dieting. We like seeing results! Now! 

I'll be honest - I'm not seeing them, yet. My shape is still out-of and my pants aren't appreciably looser. BUT...I have moved the needle a smidge. As of this morning, the scale says I weigh 158.7. I was seriously hoping to be about 9 pounds below that by now, but I need to give up the illusion that the Fat Fairy is just going to melt my fat cells away for me. I'm the Fat Fairy and if I've any hope of becoming the Not-So-Fat Fairy, I'm going to have to step it up. Or forward. With my nifty new running shoes.  

I am taking some encouragement from having broken the 160 barrier. My intermediate goal now is to break through the 150 barrier by the end of this month. That should be achievable if I stick with the current eating habits and ratchet up the activity level. But even if I'm only another 5 pounds down by month's end, I'll take it. Just gotta remember that slow and steady wins the race.