The Morning After

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.....

Well, if yesterday was a negligee day, today is a day for a long, smug, how-was-it-for-you-dear cigarette. Blood this morning was 4.9, which is moderately interesting for my fellow vampires, but overall is just a hair short of normal. My weigh-in this morning revealed this week's weight as:
17 stone 11 pounds - down about 2.25 pounds on last week. So, you see, bitch as I may have done from time to time, trying to not stress and freak out at intervening numbers seems to be the way to go.

But then...

Well, then came some conflicting information.

I should say, for those who are in to the twisty-turniness of all this, this morning's weigh-in was done in a state of fullness: try as I might, there was no emptying me out this morning before I had to get out the door and show up for work. So, yay, happy happy joy joy, 17 stone 11 full, I was happy with that.

As it happened though, I had to go to see the nurse tonight to get my Xenical prescription refilled (an oversight based on the fact that...well, based on the fact that I can't count, more than anything, meant I was down to my last pill). I saw the nurse, and she weighed me. Now - you know as well as I know that only my home scales actually counts in this endeavour - they're the scales that mock and taunt me, they're the scales against which every weigh-in has been measured, and so they're the scales against which all judgments of actual progress must be made.
We probably know each other well enough by now for you to understand that when I do my weigh-ins, I'm nekkid as a newborn (after all, I'm so obsessive about whether I'm full or empty, you knew I wouldn't add any extraneous clothing weight to the mix, right?). I'd like to think you also know me well enough to know that when I weigh in the nurse's office, I don't strip naked and let it all hang...well...down, I suppose, rather than out.

So - naked and full at the start of the day on the home scales, 17 stone 11. Woohoo. Clothed, and having had a big lunch and a Xenical attack during the day, on the nurse's scale, I was...erm...less.
I mean, substantially less. Looked about 17 stone 7 to me.
"111," she muttered approvingly. I looked at her blankly.
"Kilos," she explained.
"What does that mean in the old money?" I asked, unwilling to believe the often-biased, or at least unreliable, evidence of my own eyes.
"I have absolutely no idea," she said, helpfully. I figured I'd come home and look it up.
I came home and looked it up. 111Kg is apparently 244 pounds. If you do the maths, that works out at 17 stone (238 pounds), plus six extra pounds.

That's a whole pound and a half underneath my three-stone weightloss barrier. With clothes. In the early evening. As opposed to 3.5 pounds shy of that three-stone target, without clothes, in the morning.

So - abbbbsolutely every weasely instinct in my body is pleading with me to use the nurse's scales, to let them count, to do a little happy dance of serious weightloss.

But you know, and I know, I'm not going to do that. I can't - it smacks too much of taking extraordinary measures to finesse the results (says the man who's previously taken stool softeners to flush himself out on a weigh-in morning - consistency? Notsomuch).
The results are what they are when I record them on a Tuesday morning. On the home scales.
And let's be honest here - after a couple of weeks of stagnation and dementia, 2.25 pounds is good enough for me.

Of course, this does raise another issue. You remember me telling you I'm gonna be away for a fortnight in early September? As it happens, the last weigh-in I'm going to do for a while is two weeks today. Then I'm off in Amroth, twinned with Nowheresville, for that two weeks. I've been thinking all along that I'm going to take a bathroom scales from my mother's house, and do at least pseudo-weigh-ins while on holiday.

Not gonna happen. I don't, in all honesty, think there'd be any point - If I'm only accepting readings on the home scales as valid, then that's that - I'm going to go away, and not know which direction I'm going in for those two weeks. So there. I can do this. Without driving my increasingly long-suffering wife completely up the wall.

I'm sure I can.

Well, I think I can, anyway...