42 Pounds

Number of pairs of workout shoes I brought to Seattle: 1

Number of pairs of workout pants I brought to Seattle: 2

Number of days I have been in Seattle: 14

Number of times I have intended to go to the hotel workout facility: 14

Number of times I have actually gone …… um ……….. 0

Number of naps I have taken in the last three days: 3

Number of hours of television I have watched: many

Number of calories I have burned: few

Number of pounds I have gained the past two weeks: 42 (As evidenced by the blue jeans that *fit* when I got here, but which today barely zipped up over my Buddha belly and which had to be unzipped for personal comfort as soon as I got back from the pharmacy.)

And as I lounged on the bed this afternoon, watching my fourth episode in a row of The Take Home Chef, I glanced around and noticed the half-eaten box of Russell Stover chocolate on the nightstand, the half-empty bag of Quaker rice snacks on the mattress next to me, the empty Milk Dud boxes in the trash, and the three empty cans of Diet Dr. Pepper on the floor. And I thought to myself, “Yes. Yes, indeed. Those people you hear about who weigh twelve-hundred pounds and can’t get out of their bed and when they die it requires a crane to get them out of their house and then they have to be buried in a piano box? Yes, THIS is how it starts.”