So some of the boxes that we hauled upstairs above the tideline were labeled with the contents, and one of them said "bathroom scale." I used to weigh myself compulsively every morning as a teenager. Of course, I thought I was a total cow then and in need of constant monitoring. In retrospect, this wasn't true - I looked perfectly normal, although I was certainly larger than my anorexic friends. Somewhere around 20, I began to eat primarily organic foods, simply prepared. I watched my fat intake, and did a ton of toning exercises, and put away the scale. Monitoring things by how I felt and how my clothes fit worked just fine.

A few years later, I went through a relationship with a man who could eat just about anything without gaining weight, and I acquired a best friend who was rather heavy. And they both fed me lots of food that I love, the ones with cream and cheese and starches. Plus, I love to cook and eat. Things happened, waistline-wise. And I haven't really done a lot since to correct the things that happened. And I'm inching pretty close to 30 years old.

I certainly haven't been weighing myself over the past few years. But today there was this scale in a box, and you can imagine for yourself what happened. I stepped on it, fully clothed, in the carpeted upstairs hallway. Then I took it downstairs to the linoleum kitchen floor, stripped nekkid, and stepped on it again. Although one would think that gravity would be stronger on a bottom floor, the numbers were lower. But still.

Contemplation is in order. This contemplation will no doubt be highly schizophrenic, since I'm the sort of person who links to both food blogs and a fitness blog. And I feel weird thinking and writing about it, since I've been off on this Life of the Mind bender for however many years it's been now. Have to keep reminding myself that those things are not only not mutually exclusive, but actually interdependent. Hmph.