Downer

Damn. I mistook a blip for a new level. My weight’s not 161, it’s 165.

It’s crazy how a little measuring device, my bathroom scale, can jerk my emotions around. I’ll keep eating my morning yoghurt and berries, but it’s a disheartening bummer to find that I really didn’t reach a breakthrough.

Today I lunched at Postrio. Ten years ago this was a happening place. Wolfgang Puck was its muse. The food was fantastic. The dining room bustled. Sic transit gloria mundi. Only six of us lunched at Postrio today. It’s a ghost town and that’s sad.

My prosciutto and fig pizza was good but not knock-your-socks-off good.

Then again, maybe Mr. Scale had colored my judgment. I was bummed.

No diet, not even the extremely liberal and optimistic Berkeley Diet is all sweetness.

 

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