way in

S. weighed herself on Sunday. I wasn't there, but she reported in later that day. "I'm down .4," she said sheepishly.

"That's great!" I replied, genuinely.

I did NOT weigh myself on Sunday. By the time I remembered, I'd already eaten. And drank three cups of coffee. In other words, there was NO WAY I was getting on that scale at noon.

"I'm going to do it tomorrow," I said.

Today is tomorrow. Did I remember to weigh myself? (no.)

Damn this petty pace. Damn the fact that I'm hitching my wagon to a scale and praying it takes me down down down all the way to Onederland.

S. and I talked about what we wanted to be "when we grew up" this past weekend. I said I had so many things that seemed possible but I wasn't sure WHAT I wanted. More school? Opening a business in our up-n-coming 'hood? Going back to teaching, getting an actual teaching degree? I think I'd be a kick ass high school English teacher. I'd love to turn kids that age on to poetry, just like what happened to me when I was a senior. (Now what was that teacher's name! Perhaps I would not be as memorable as I like to think.) Teaching would afford me summers off, and since S. already has that, we could fulfill our dream of trekking around North, Central and South America in our VW van. (One that we don't own yet, mind you.) Or do I stay put, continue to pay off debt, save save save (oh WHY couldn't I be born with the MISERLY & FRUGAL gene?) and, hopefully, make my way back to Montana?

And then there's the most fucked up desire/possibility of all. You know the one. The one where it would all be clear to me, crystal clear, what I should do with my life, because life would be GRAND. Perfect. If I was thin, I could rule the world. With one finger. Careers would fall at my feet. A business would open itself. There would be no What If's because I'd be in the land of Thin Me.

I don't like that this completely whacked way of thinking is still in me. Way way in. But it is.