I mentioned earlier this week that one evening, after a long day of sweaty exercise of some form or another and not much food or water, I hopped on the scale and was pleasantly surprised to see that I weighed 209 pounds, some 18 pounds less than I weighed earlier this spring. (I’m 6’3″, for perspective). School had definitely taken a toll on the physique over the prior two years. It’s amazing how much bored, nervous eating can add to your bellyroll.

I noted my weight to Marcia that night, and she casually asked how long it had been since I was below 200 pounds. Best I can remember, it was around my 30th birthday, when I truly, expertly tortured myself with a “lose 30 pounds, in 30 days, for my 30th birthday” masochism drill, which dropped me down to about 195 pounds or so, for a few days, before I bounced back up into the 200s. That’s the way I like to do this sort of weight-loss thing.

So though Marcia didn’t exactly challenge me to hit 200 pounds, per se, I think it would be nice to see what the 190s feel like again, all these years later (a good deal more than a decade, anyway, though I ain’t telling you more than that). Given that fact, I think I’m going to punish myself for the month of August and see if I can’t get down below 200 pounds before Labor Day weekend. It’s going to be harder than it was last week, since two great meals out this weekend (one tapas, one Indian food) bumped me back up over 210.

So bring on the sardines and caviar and crab sticks and hummus. I will do this. I will enjoy it. I can feel the hurt already, and it pleases me.

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