No, I'm not feeling Shakespearian. I've been thinking lately about how this past month has been different for me, though, and it has to do with the way we use words to talk about weight.
As I posted last month, my brother was in town for a week in July. During that week, I'd planned to keep on track, more or less, with exercise, drink my usual 3 liters of water a day, do my best to get enough rest most days, and eat healthfully as I normally do.
But even the best-laid plans of mice and moms go astray, and this was the case for me. I did all right with getting a reasonable amount of rest, but otherwise, things were pretty crazy. I don't think I got in 3 liters of water a day any of the days my brother was in town. I exercised a day or two, but not many. We went out to eat far more often than I'd planned, and I ate and drank more than I normally do.
It wasn't hard for me to predict that I'd gain a few pounds. As is typical for me, my size and weight remained unchanged until mid-July, long after my brother was home. I'd already returned to my usual habits, but the weight suddenly showed up anyhow. I continued on with my usual routine. Without any effort, two weeks later, the weight was gone again. I'm back to the size and weight I was when my brother arrived.
That's not so thrilling, I suppose. What did surprise and please me, though, was that not once did I feel worried or guilty. I had a plan for the time while my brother was here, but other things were more important, knowing that he'd only be visiting for a week. I knew with certainty I'd return to my usual routine when he left, and I knew my usual routine would bring my weight back to normal.