bent backs bent arms and nowadays

I am down .2 pounds. It's bizarre to reduce the week to a loss or a gain. That action of stepping on the scale is so loaded. I can remember, back in elementary school (Go Fairview Eagles!), getting weighed once a year in the library. I'm not sure why they did this, but they'd call us each in separately, and the room was kind of dark, with no-one but the school nurse (or a helper) and that scale. So they'd weigh us, and they'd check us for scoliosis, and I was happy I didn't have to get a back brace, but that didn't do much to kill the shame of being fat. And while no one really said "Hey, Kid-- You're fat!" I could tell (early projection?) that they thought weighing as much as I did was wrong.

And these weigh-ins, they continued through junior high, and each semester they'd call us up in a line, and the gym teacher would kind of shout it out, and I just knew the kid in line before or after me could hear, and I guess I was kind of lucky, because sometimes those kids-- they'd be chubby or fat, like me, and so I knew that number wouldn't shock them-- or maybe I knew they were engrossed in their own little terror, too.

But now, this weighing in, I do it for myself. I do it to keep on track, to hold myself accountable, to pay respect to my health and this body that once upon a time, year after year, didn't do so well in the presidential fitness testing. Sure I was slow in the 50 yard dash and I was so quick out of the "bent arm hang" that the standard stop watch couldn't catch me, but at least I didn't fart during sit-ups like John Subject did.

So what if he got the gold trunks-- he was a gasser. I bet he still is.