I’m stuck. I don’t have my head wedged in the arms of a big iron fence. Not yet.

But the scale keeps coming up with the same number when I step on it. Stupid scale.

That doesn’t really help, now, does it? Nah, you’re right. (Stupid scale.)

Something has to change. Looking back, that initial weight loss seemed so easy.  And it was.  But now I have hit the stubborn pounds.  The pounds that declared their presence on my hips long ago. They pull out the homesteader clause that gives them the right to stay put. I have to come up with a clever and effective means of evicting them.

So when I am finished with this post I will put Frankie on his leash and go for a walk.  A longer walk than we’ve been taking, because, as I said, something has to change.

Now, being me, when I’m stuck in one aspect of my life I wander over to where thoughts hang out in my brain and pluck the idea that being stuck on the scale is a metaphor for being stuck in other aspects of my life.  I know I have to change things up a bit.  Stuck is comfortable.  Stuck is easy. Stuck is magnetic: stuck grows with each passing aspect of life and pulls it in, makes it cozy in the nice plush groove of predictable.  It whispers you don’t really want to buy clothes in a smaller size; you don’t really want to eat more fruits and veggies; you don’t really want to change the way you cook, and if those don’t work you don’t really want to change the way you live.

I do, I protest.  Really, really I do.

Now, I'm trying to come up with a clever way of closing this post.  But, you see, I'm stuck.  When my mother's brother was a little boy he managed to get his head between the posts of an iron fence. He was stuck. They twisted his head this way and that. Pulled, tugged, worried (my grandmother was an Olympic class worrier). Nothing seemed to work. Finally they had to call the fire department.  They came with crowbars to pry the little boy out.  He was un-stuck!!

The conclusion, therefore, is that all I need now is a crowbar. I'll let you know how that works.