Pound for pound.

Yes indeed. I’m a chubb-o these days. It’s poetic justice, in a sense. Poetically, I’m a vain woman. In plain english, I’m a vain woman. A gaining woman. But here’s the thing: if I put willingness on one side and I just don’t give a fuck on the other, guess which weighs more? Right, they’re even. So what’s a girl to do?
Folks’ll come into the shop and ask for scales. Food scales, I ask? No. People scales. Nope. Sorry. But we have this here UPS scale that you can borrow. It goes up to 70lbs. I need to stand on it almost 2.5 times nowadays. That sucks. Two summers ago, I was light. So light, that folks commented on my lightness. Three moons forward, I’m chunky. So chunky, that folks have the unmitigated gall to comment on my chunk. I suppose if you act like you have no feelings, people think there’s nothing to hurt. But what’s my point? My point is this; I gotta put down the fork and pick up the pace. Isolation begets sloth. And even though Lu and I joke about my being descended from sloths, it can’t really be true. Can it? I have more than three toes, anyway. So here’s the plan; Get up, get out, get on with it. Being secluded and down on my myself doesn’t burn fat. So…Eh-net. What’s for dinner?