The scale at the doctor’s office today said I’d lost eight pounds over the past six weeks. I said I didn’t think so. I’d been working at it, but for only three weeks, and not that hard.*
The nurse said, “The scale downstairs doesn’t match this one, so if you used that one last time . . .”
I used that one. Sad but accurate.
But my slacks fit better. Not perfectly, because they never do. They’re too long in the stride.
Matt Dillon’s trousers were too long in the stride. At least, that’s what my great-aunt Nettie claimed. She said she could hardly stand it–on Saturday nights, when Marshal Dillon turned his back and walked down the street for the weekly shootout, she wanted to just pull those baggy pants off him and alter them.
So Matt Dillon and I have something in common. We don’t have our slacks tailored. Too much trouble.
Does anybody else remember Gunsmoke? I thought of it because I thought of my slacks. That’s the kind of day it is. Most days are like that. It takes me forever to complete a task because I think of something else and something else and before long I’m doing something else.
They say people who like to read should never open a dictionary, because they see one word, and then another, and another, and another, and the blog post they began on June 12th isn’t finished till June 20th.
People like that shouldn’t open Facebook either.
*Working hard ends in disaster.