Rachel, a few days after Thursday’s weigh in.
When I was in my mid-twenties I had this boyfriend, Tony. He was in a band, had long gorgeous 80s rock star locks, and his whammy bar was something to behold. He was that boyfriend who came as a package deal, him and his two bandmates—take ’em all or have none. He was hot, and I was a sucker for the hair and guitar, so I was willing to go along with this love rhombus. They loved to play cards, blackjack to be precise. Many post-gig / post-rehearsals were spent in the car going back and forth from Treasure Island and West St. Paul. The ride there was fraught with anticipation; they were like pumped up adrenaline junkies looking for their fix. The ride home was the stuff of roller coaster legend, and you know whether you are a roller-enthusiast. Truth be told, I am not. However, the rides to and from, being up or being down (way way down) did not keep me from the thrill that is blackjack. Deal, peek, hit me—going from the frustrating as hell, what will I do 13—and then getting the mythical 8 and the sound of a dealer hoping to make it stick. 21. Around the horn, blackjack. Dealer breaks. What a sweet sweet sound.
Thursday’s are the day we weigh in “officially” for the weight loss challenge. The week leading up to weigh in day this week I was dreading the scale. Not because I cheated—Lord have mercy—I haven’t. I dreaded it because I weighed in every day after the previous Thursday, and didn’t lose a thing. I stayed the same (or gained a pound, muscle I hope).
Now before you go and tell me numbers don’t mean anything, don’t worry I am not getting caught in that game. I know, they can’t measure strength, endurance, value and worth. But …. BUT they also don’t lie. They are objective and void of emotions. They just are. Oh lovely math whose science is so exact, true.
So Thursday at ass’oclock AM there I was, shoes off, in front of my fear. One foot at a time I stepped up on the scale and watched the numbers jumble and whir like a slot machine. Whizzing, watching cherries flip by—until STOP: 217.3. Holy shit. That is (trying to do instant math, look up and) twenty one—TWENTY ONE! Blackjack. Jackpot.
If I were still a gambling lady, I’d start moving the chips right about now. I would double down, and place all my bets on me. I hit 21 pounds, and I can’t stop now. I am on a streak. I am HOT.