Good-bye granny panties, hello big toe

“It’s all shrinking,” he said.
“I take it that’s a compliment, right honey?” I queried, raising my eyebrow.
I couldn’t help but think out loud of a fine elderly woman named Joyce whose saying about the perfect breast size was “More than a handful is too much.”
“That depends on the size of hand we’re talking about,” he laughed.
It’s week six of Boot Camp, people, and I’m 12 pounds lighter. I anticipated the moment with glee last Saturday morning as I stepped onto the scale with two feet and my hair wet.
I could look down and actually see some of my feet as the numbers blinked back at me.
“Good-bye granny panties, hello big toe!” I shouted.
I did a little jig, put my clothes back on, immediately went to my dresser and, using both hands, flung the big underwear left and right over my shoulders.
“You’re outta here!”
The 90-10 rule was put into action: “Remove everything, lose most of it, and bring back the very best 10 percent.”
Hold it. There was no 10 percent. All skivvies were on the floor. What remained were two pair of industrial-strength undergarments—cousins to the “Body by Ganz” 38 D-cup body-shaper (and almost as dangerous)—that I’d tucked into the back corner of the drawer.
I forgot about this part. Losing weight costs money.
Already my hipster jeans were starting to slide to my thighs, and the two bras I owned from 1995 were on the third and final clasp.
I’d started drying the jeans three times over on the hot cycle to see if I could shrink the lycra molecules a little bit more. At least I could now button up the blouses I’d been wearing fashionably “open” over a T-shirt.
On the other hand, my personal food budget was lower. I haven’t eaten a slice of bread or a coffee shop doughnut in more than a month. And I’ve become very thrifty with leftover broccoli and cabbage, stealing them away to make green vegetable soup.
Pureed, it makes a great lunch (really)—even if it does look like baby poop.
I’ve had a chance to “live large” and have a bowl of pasta or a drink or two.
Unfortunately, while contemplating—under gargantuan parental stress recently—whether to be a dog or a tree in my next life, I waived the rights to only two glasses of wine and had four. Or maybe it was six.
I swore on the graves of all my ancestors the next morning that I would not do that again for at least the next six weeks.
Oh, maaaan! Six weeks is a long time.

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