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.
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.
M. K. Waller 
This was hilarious! I can relate on so many levels!
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Thank you. I don’t know which is worse–ill-fitting slacks or ill-fitting brain. I’ve learned to live with both.
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Hey, I do NOT have time to find a video of Matt Dillon walking down the street. I’ll take your word for it. The scale at my exercise place weighed me way less today, too. I was shocked. Maybe it’s a scale revolt.
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I just looked at video. I don’t know if the diagnosis is correct, but the seat of his pants don’t fit quite right. But if they’re comfortable, that’s all that counts. As for scales, I’d like to alter some of them.
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I loved this post. You taught me so much and still do. I understand ill-fitting brains.
Your perspective of ill-fitting pants, ill-fitting brains and scales, made me smile as my day begins! 😉
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I just read this! Yes, I do remember Gun Smoke, a regular in our house, as it was Dad’s favorite tv program. In fact, we named two kittens Chester and Mr. Dillion. One day Chester was climbing the back screen door, belly fully exposed, and Dad said, “Looks like we will have to change Chester’s name to Miss Kitty.” Sure enough, babies ensued, and Miss Kitty was relocated to a new home. But Mr. Dillion was my cat for years and years. In fact, he was still alive after I left home to become Mrs. Grogan. So he had a good life on the farm, in spite of misadventures and snake bites. He was never neutered; we only called on vets when a calf was trying to be born crooked. Cats were just part of the furniture, nothing you ever spent money on. Your writings always bring back such wonderful memories.
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