Today is not a good day. I’ve been off the blogging for a week, and in those seven days I’ve put on five pounds. It could be the indulgence of my birthday, the visit of my nephew, or the all-around collapse of discipline, but nonetheless I’ve put on almost everything I took off.

So now it’s back to the drawing board. The pain of losing weight is that it never stops. My nephew apparently inherited the skinny gene; I got the hearty fat peasant gene that will make it possible for me to withstand months and months of starvation. So if there’s a nuclear war, I’ll be a survivor. Lucky me.

I think my goal of 180 by Paris is now completely unrealistic, and that’s disheartening. But the goal remains a good one. I guess I’ll just have to readjust and perhaps achieve it by Thanksgiving (assuming I don’t completely fuck up in Paris and put on 15 pounds in a week).