The Post In Which I Weigh In On Weighing In

A few days ago I was enjoying my weekly magazine flip-fest at a nearby bookstore, when I happened upon an article in a women's magazine (I think it was Allure), that displayed side-by-side, passport-style photos of female twins. Out of each pair, there was one twin who looked much younger than the other. Regardless of whether the twins were in their 20s, 30s, 40s, 50s or 60s, the older-looking one was inevitably lax about sunscreen, or was a smoker, or had been through a divorce or some other type of stressful situation. No real surprise, there. Ho hum. Yawn, scritch, daydream. BUT it turns out there was an additional factor at play. It was the big bang of the article, if you like, or its Ripley's believe-it-or-not moment. And here it is: in those twins who were UNDER the age of 40, it was inevitably the thinner one who appeared younger. But for those who were OVER the age of 40, it was always the heavier one who seemed kissed by the morning dew.

So I'm gonna go ahead and have a brownie now, thanks.

I kid! I prank! I am NOT going to have a brownie because I still experience some residual weight terror. You see, during my 6 weeks or so of mononucleosis misery, I lost 10.6 (look how ridiculously important it is to me to include that ".6"; that is how fraught with fraughtiness this subject remains) pounds. I know this because after the ordeal, it felt for all the world like I was walking out of my pants. Like I was in serious danger of leaving my pants behind me on the street. And so I hooked up the dusty iFit (we don't have a scale) to check my weight, and there it was in high definition: I'd lost 10.6 pounds. It was obviously all water and muscle, but did that realization keep me from feeling elated about the whole thing? No, it did not. All I knew is that I could wear ANYTHING in my closet. My friends joked that they, too, wanted to go on the "Mono Diet."

But then you know what happened? For the next 4 weeks—and I do not exaggerate here; not one bit—I was terrified to eat. Which is SUCH a bullshit thing. I love to eat. I love to cook. And I am an active person who dutifully records her hours of Intentional Movement (laugh if you like, but doesn't it sound more fun than "Exercise?") over at Daytum.com. And here are some other reasons why it was SUCH a bullshit thing: I don't particularly care for butter or margarine or sour cream or whipped cream or any kind of cream, really, including ice cream. I have the Asian Flu, so therefore I do not drink alcohol of any kind. It's true that fried and/or crispy foods add a dimension of delight to my life, however I keep them to a manageable minimum. In short, I should NOT be terrified to eat.

I slowly got over it, and with the exception of an occasional day when the aforementioned residual terror rears up and screams at me, I am back to eating like a normal person. I haven't weighed myself again, but I would imagine that I've probably gained back five pounds or so. And that's fine. I was fine before, and I'm fine now, and I really don't ever want to think about this again because it is SUCH bullshit.

Bullshit.