As I write this Labor Day, I am aghast at how long it’s been since I’ve visited my blog. I am also incredibly relieved that summer has pretty much passed. Being a pale, moderate weather loving woman with summer allergies, I am usually forced to spend much of late-May through August indoors.
That pretty much blows.
At least I had plenty to do this summer. I managed to teach a course; work myself silly; travel to St. Louis, Boston, Spearfish, Michigan with the DPI ladies; and plant a garden. The course went well, but the garden only yielded giant zucchinis, a couple tomatoes, and a shitload of weeds. McFad and I are so ashamed of the garden plot that we’re planning on visiting it in the cover of nightfall next time. It’s been about a month since the last time we checked it out, so I am sure our neighbors aren’t exactly pleased with us.
And this brings me to the title of this post. I stepped on the scale for the first time since April today, and lo and behold, I am back to 163 pounds. This is a familiar weight for me. Whenever I stop exercising regularly and start eating want I want, this is where my body wants to hover. My stout broad-shouldered German/Polish genes have kicked in as the extra pudge has gathered around my upper arms, belly, and thighs. Early in my twenties, I would have freaked out at this news. Now, I kind of shrug and understand that I have accomplished a helluva lot this summer and a little weight gain isn’t the worst thing in the world. I will eat a little better, exercise more, and enjoy my favorite season of the year. It’s all good.