I couldn’t help but climb aboard the Platform Of Truth (aka “the scale”) after all my exertions with the patio yesterday and found that I’ve descended to 222 pounds. I’ll probably pop back up to 224 or more as everything settles, but I can’t blame it on water loss. I must’ve downed a 12-pack of diet Snapples during the course of the day’s work.
There are two episodes I can specifically remember weighing in the immediate vicinity of 222 pounds — both a heck of a long time ago. One was in the fall of 1984 when I was knee deep in my yuppie craze and weighing myself religiously after every workout at what was then the Nautilus Aerobics Plus healthclub on Ventura in Studio City. The last time was in 1990 and I was a full-throttle Sparkletts Man, the very nature of the job being a daily rigorous workout with the 40-plus pound water bottles.
There were too many times in my life where I never expected to be this “slim” again. And once I hit 216 I will be at the lowest weight I’ve been in my adult life. Perhaps that milestone will arrive in time for my birthday climb with Susan to the top of Death Valley’s 11,049-foot Telescope Peak over Memorial Day weekend. Once we attain the summit, I’ll simultaneously be the smallest and tallest I’ve ever been.
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