Today my BMI fell back into the normal range. BOOM. Okay, it was because I adjusted the scale. BUT STILL.
The scale I owned before, you’d stand on it and it’d read 115 pounds (HAHAHAHAHA) and then you’d step off it, give it a second then get back on, and it’d read 127 pounds (HAHAHAHAHAHA). I even got six pounds of weights and held those to see if it’d say, you know, six pounds more.
With the weights, I weighed 297 pounds.
So Ned got me a different scale, mostly because he doesn’t own a scale, cause he weighs himself at the gym, but it annoyed him to come to my house to learn he’d both gained and lost 40 pounds in 14 seconds. “What’s with your SCALE?” he asked.
He got me a Weight Watcher’s brand, and you can set it up to tell you your body fat (I’m at around 100%), bone density (my bones are very smart), how much water you have in your body at any given time (I’m filled with 98% irritation) and then of course your weight. Oh, and your BMI, which was the whole point of this diatribe.
So, see, I used to be 5’6″ (and weigh 113 pounds. Oh, college, how I miss you. And that was 113 with a PERM, which had to weigh more), but in my dotage I’ve lost half an inch, which is what he said. The scale won’t allow you to enter half inches, which is what I say. So when I initially gave the scale my info, I told it I was 5’5″.
Today I got annoyed. Why’d I have to deny myself that half inch? (Which is what she–oh, you get my drift.) So I made myself 5’6″ and now my BMI is good. I just realized really stalky readers (if there were a scale here, it’d read Stalky Readers: 99%) will now go look at a chart and figure out approximately what I weigh now. Go ahead, Rudeness.
So now that I’m thin again, I can really embrace life.
Oh, and speaking of embracing life and my hobbies and so forth, I have a new thing I hate. It’s good to expand one’s repertoire.
Do you ever read articles on someone’s online behavior? For example, let’s say, to throw a scenario out there, Donald Trump tweets something dippy at 4 a.m. Then the news tells us what he said.
“Donald Trump Tweets that Hezbollah is His Favorite Side Dish,” the article will read, and then it will tell you the story, showing the tweet: “Hezbollah is fantastic. There’s nothing like it. Delicious.”
Then underneath the screen shot of the tweet? “Hezbollah is fantastic. There’s nothing like it. Delicious,” the president said in a tweet Tuesday.
WHY DO THEY ALWAYS HAVE TO REPEAT WHAT WE JUST READ? Why? WE KNOW HOW TO READ A SCREEN SHOT.
I realize any news story that reports on a tweet is kind of a shitty news story anyway. And the story I was reading was actually about Chris Pratt’s breakup, and I don’t even know who Chris Pratt is. Some vanilla-looking dude, from what I can tell.
Anyway, it annoys. It’s like when you had to write a 500-word paper for school, and you were careful to always write “it is” instead of it’s so you’d have one more word.
In other news, (“In other news,” June wrote), I had a mole removed yesterday. I wasn’t that nervous about it, but it turned out to be a little more harrowing than I’d planned. It was a real procedure, with scalpels and stitches and everything.
When it was over, I returned to work, because trouper. My boss isn’t even IN this week, and neither is HIS boss. Totally could have gotten away with an afternoon on the couch watching The Price is Right and The Edge of Night.
But I did not, because I had a newsletter-planning meeting with m’staff, m’loyal staff, m’subjects, and I’ve never missed a meeting yet in four years of being editor of the fine company newsletter. So I dragged my post-major-surgery self to the meeting area, and?
No one came.
Once, my friend David, who is Italian and Catholic, had a grandmother who was similarly Italian and Catholic. Once, no one remembered that grandmother’s birthday. Look, his whole family was very set it and forget it. There were 942 kids, and they were all provided for very handsomely, and his parents came to his swim meets and so on, don’t get me wrong. But hover they did not. He was the last of the 942 kids, and there was a lot of “You’re fine” and “Shake it off.”
He’s one of the best-adjusted people I know.
However, that Italian grandma’s 612 children and grandchildren were a little TOO hands off, because one time in high school when David and I were looking through the family album and giggling, I came across his short beleaguered grandma frowning mournfully and holding a cake that read “Happy birthday to me” in the icing.
I wish I had the photo, so then I could put it up here and write under it, “Happy birthday to me,” the cake read.
“Oh my god, what is the story here?” I asked David, as if all the pieces weren’t right in front of me. Turns out, yes, I know it’s hard to guess, but it turns out no one remembered Grandma, so she MADE A WHOLE CAKE and sent that guilt-inducing photo to all her kids. I love that they saved it in the family album.
Why the fuck was I telling you this story? Oh, right, the newsletter meeting.
I sent the most martyred grandma-cake email to the newsletter staff, with that pitiful bandaged picture, saying how despite my pain and wooziness I’d cobbled together ideas anyway [DISCLAIMER: The one chick who comes up with good ideas without fail had already given me most of the ideas] and here they were and I hoped I’d have enough strength to hit Send.
Like one person wrote back. “Sorry.”
Whatever, staff members.
But speaking of high school, my high school boyfriend Cardinal was perusing things from our hometown, who knows why, and he came across this picture of our childhood zoo, taken in 1969.
“Isn’t that YOU in the background?” he wrote. And you know what? That totally could be. I had dresses like that, I had 50 pounds of hair. I was at the zoo approximately 200 times a week. So, yes.
I loved going in that whale, which is what everyone who dated me said, back when I had that sky-high BMI. There were gerbils and spiders and fish and lizards in tanks in there. The whale. Not m’sugar walls.
I’d better get in the shower and go to work, as I have a full day of martyrdom up ahead of me. Plus, I have to fend off those questions of “Are you ill? Why are you so thin?” I’ll be swamped.
(I got so thin, my “e” melted off.)