I'm a pork belly thinner after literally eating pork

A wise man recently told me I should write when I'm angry, because everyone writes better when they are angry.  So I thought to myself. I do this often, because I can't read anyone else's thoughts, therefore I'm stuck with mine.  It was now imperative to bring out the inner anger in me; and I knew I had it. I can tell from reading some of my past Facebook posts.

Well what has really chapped my hide in recent weeks is the plateau I've been sitting on, while Big Red slides into home base with her goal weight completely intact. And I quote, "I'm at my goal. Oh, wait  today I'm a pound under my goal," in her best Gidget voice.  Well gosh. I couldn't be happier for you.  Well you did have a lot more weight to lose than I.  Oh snap!! And I'd go on, but as we all know this blog is about me.

Thankful for 128 lb.

I am delighted to report I busted through that final plateau on Thanksgiving morning. That's right, no matter how many times I stepped off and on that scale during the five-minute victory dance, it read 128 lbs.  Now you wonder what did I do differently the day before to finally shake off another layer of pork belly.

Here's the trick: First of all, go to lunch with a lush (in my case it's "I've reached my goal" Big Red) and order the fish they have on special, because this means they're trying to get rid of it before it stinks up the joint. Choose a lovely wine approved by your lunch lush, because this will be all you'll consume due to the one week-old grouper staring at you from your plate's vantage point. Then later in the day, say around 5 p.m. meet the same lush and second lush (Gucci) for an informal meeting with a Museum executive, where you should eat the guts of one BBQ Pork slider; and you must drink all your vodka.

From left: BFF, moi, Raiderette, "I'm under my goal" Big Red,  and Tahoe girl.

And the Pièce de résistance is to skedadle on down to your favorite Italian feeding trough at the very moment they are slicing the premium portion of the Prosciutto, and nibble on that with the crust of a tiny slice of bread - and drink all your wine, and maybe a little of someone else's. This my friends was the magic formula for careening my body through the tortuous daily reading on the scale of (you're still a loser who is such a loser, you can't even lose another pound.)

You all do know that I'm no fool, which is why I hid the scale last night so not to be tempted to climb on for the day-after-Thanksgiving reading. I like the ignorant bliss of knowing just yesterday I was at my goal; and as far as I'm concerned - I'm still there. No scale has any proof otherwise.