An aspiring, but uninspired, loser

Some months back, when newly single and a new resident of a new apartment I felt compelled to buy some new things for the new place.

OK, I had to buy some things for the new place because I didn't have some things I needed, like a shower curtain.

I've never been accused of being a neat freak, but there is just something wrong about lathering up in a shower with nothing to keep the water from spraying all over the bathroom. If nothing else, it would be a safety hazard. With my luck I'd slip and fall on the wet floor, and my nude bloated body would be found weeks later, sprawled out all over the floor, my head split open on the edge of the tub, and maggots doing their damnedest to aid in decomposition.

So, I went to the one store that has seemingly anything a person could need and that I actually don't mind shopping in -- Target. If truth be told, I made several trips to Target because I was also broke and couldn't afford necessary supplies and decorative amenities in one trip. On one of those trips, I picked up a bathroom scale. I'm not quite sure what compelled me to buy one. I haven't ever owned a bathroom scale. But in the newly single logic that played on my mind, I figured it would be a good way to inspire myself to lose a few pounds to get myself back in slender chick-magnet shape.

OK, for the record, I've never been a chick magnet. And I've never been slender. I have either been scrawny, or had a pot belly and scrawny arms. And I haven't seen scrawny (except for my arms) since about 1989.

So, I bought the scale, and I was not at all pleased with the numbers I saw on the little digital dial. I wasn't too fond of the digital dial either. It has an annoying habit of measuring precisely, down to the half pound. Come on, can't the damn thing just round the number down? I was used to the old scale we had when I was growing up. You know the one with the little dial on the back that you could turn to "calibrate" it. And it just had lines on the dial. There were only numbers in 10 pound increments. A bigger line every five pounds. And the dial was never precise. You got a rough estimate of your weight. "I weigh about 160 pounds." Close enough. That'll work.

Well, this frickin' scale doesn't do about. It does number-number-number-point-number. And that first set of numbers were a little too close to 200 pounds for my comfort. Well, the tight slacks weren't doing much for my comfort either, but they still buttoned damn it! I don't need abused for a digital readout too!

So, anyway, every few days, I'd weigh myself. And every few days I'd sulk. The numbers would bounce around a few pounds this way or that, but didn't really moved too much over time. I lost a few pounds, but that was about it.

But the last few mornings, the number have dropped again. One day the number had dropped to a number I had never seen on the scale before. I figured my eyes were deceiving me. So I stepped off and stepped back on. And the scale dropped 4 more pounds. Now, I know I hadn't been awake very long, but I wasn't seeing things. At least I didn't think so. And I was pretty sure I didn't lose 4 pounds in 4 seconds. At that rate I'd literally waste away to nothing in about an hour and a half.

So, I don't trust the scale any more than I trusted the old analog one that is still sitting beside the door in my parents' bathroom. But the odd thing is, the numbers are still creeping down. I won't be joining Kirstie Alley on a Jenny Craig commercial anytime soon, but I feel good about it.

I feel particularly good about it because I'm not doing a damn thing to make it happen. Exercise? Yea right. Most people wouldn't call my exertion method exercise. Well, it does get my heart rate up, but I doubt it qualifies as a true cardio workout, and I'd be kicked out of a gym workin' up a sweat that way. "Can someone bring me a towel please? Whew, rubbing one out is hard work. Sorry about the mess. Don't worry, I'll wipe off the bench."

The one lifestyle change that I have made is that I'm drinking less. It's not out of some tea-totaling aspirations. I'm just too broke to buy beer. So I drink water. And I'm too cheap (broke) to buy bottled water too. The bottle may say Aquafina, but the contents are pure Coachella Valley Water District baby, vintage 2005. And I don't buy groceries, so there is nothing to snack on in the house. If there's anything else in the fridge it means I took the alternate route home, stopped at the minimart, and I'm subsisting on chips, salsa and cheep cervesa, por favor. Lately I've resisted the urge, again because I don't need the ATM machine laughing at me when I try to withdraw cash. So I can't just sit on my fat ass and nibble while watching TV.

Hungry G-man? Have some water. Want a beer? Drink some water.

I'm sort of a modern-day hunger/gatherer. When I'm hungry I have to go hunt for a Carl's Jr. and gather in a Western cheeseburger. And I don't make it large (not because I don't want the big fries, but again, I'm cheap, and a large drink won't fit in the cupholder of my truck).

So, the couch potato water diet won't get me too far. But in the mean time I'm finding out that poverty does have its privileges.

By the time I'm homeless I ought to be looking pretty hot! The chicks in the shelter better look out.

Diet