Not that I want to gloat, but I've lost enough weight that our bathroom scale is now down into the numbers range. It wasn't always that way.
For longer than I care to remember, that little window on the scale -- the dreaded eye into our soul of self-loathing, if you will -- didn't show any numbers at all, just letters or words.
"One at a time" was probably my favorite at the highest point of actual weight and lowest ebb of self-esteem.
Then, after some half-tries to do something about my situation, I eased down into the "OMG!" range and, finally, after self-discipline which I figure equals the resolve of "The Little Engine That Could," I got the scale to merely whimper "Help" for a while.
Now I'm down into numbers, baby, and descending with the not-so-blazing speed of a packed elevator at the end of a long day touring the refried bean factory.
I guess you're wondering how I pulled off this amazing success. Easy ...
We got bikes!
We bought them at night, in a hurry. What could possibly go wrong?
Plenty, actually. My wife Suellen's fun-on-two-wheels machine actually turned out to be a semi-rusted demonstrator suffering from MacArthur Park syndrome. You know, the song? Except it wasn't the cake left out in the rain. In this case, it was her bicycle, which will actually reluctantly shift a gear or two after five or six squirts of WD-40 and some serious handlebar-grip twisting.
My shiny new ride is a Huffy. I like to refer to it as a Huffy Puffy, mainly because we have some gently sloping hills in our neighborhood that appear to transform into Pikes Peak with speed bumps once I'm on the saddle.
(Saddle: The proper name for a bicycle seat, which I think was invented by a disturbed man or woman who enjoyed watching others suffer. Also, "bicycle seat sore" just doesn't have a ring to it like "saddle sore" does.)
The hills in our 'hood may not actually jut 14,115 feet into the sky like that Pikes Peak thing, but it sure feels that way when I'm pedaling at about a thousand RPMs and tipping the speedometer at somewhere between 3/4 and 1 mph.
Not that I have a speedometer on my bike. I just know I'm not setting any speed records because a newborn puppy-dog just learning to stand on all fours beat me up the hill the other day. Also, it's common for people on that street to come out in their front yards to snicker at me (and, I suspect, place bets) as I sweat and pedal my way up the gradual slope.
Whatever. My diet and exercise program is working, so what do I care about how the neighbors feel? And just for the record, I'm pretty sure that little doggie is part greyhound. In fact, I'm declaring success. My New Year's resolution of 1979 has finally been accomplished. So congrats to me.
Now I can get serious about the next year's resolution: Become a world famous standup comedian before 1980 comes to an end.
I can't worry about that right now, though. Gotta go. It's time for my snack.
Yum, frijoles refritos.