With the exception of the massive campaign to lose baby weight, a campaign I’ve waged five times now, I don’t usually weigh myself. M mustn’t like to use the scale that often either because ours primarily serves as the place we put all the magazines we like to read in the bathroom.
One morning this week I took off the stack of Economists (yes, we are a clever bunch), Vanity Fairs (not always), and the odd catalog, and dusted off the rest of the scale. Then I got on.
I got off and took out my retainer. (Yes, I still wear one. No, I do not wish to talk about it.) I got back on the scale again and I weighed the exact same. Even without the retainer. How does that work?
I concluded that I must have heavy teeth.
Speaking of catalogs, I must have gotten one in the mail this week for bras. I know this because I found it, upstairs in the boys’ room with many of the bras cut out of it, leaving those poor, skinny underwear models with gaping holes in their chests. I panicked for a moment. Underwear models? Already? Don’t I have a few years before I have to deal with this?
Turns out a certain child of mine has taken to printing up pictures of his least favorite athletes and sticking bras on them. Yes, I think there is a picture of Tom Brady wearing a cute little lacy number on the boys’ door. He didn’t look half bad. I suppose if football doesn’t work out, his wife could always get him a gig with Victoria’s Secret.