Dear God, I feel like a happily stuffed tick after time spent with a Great Dane.
This relates to the fact that by the refrigerator in the breakroom is a manual scale, the kind with the weights that you have to move about. It's pretty much irresistible, so you *have* to go check it out. And by checkout, I mean, check your weight. By the refrigerator. On one hand, as long as my clothes fit, I do not give a damn.
On the other, I'm a girl, and I want to know.
So curiosity satisfied at weighing in at roughly 160. I weighed 125-140 in high school, depending on week, so hell if I know what my weight is *supposed* to be. I will state that the likelihood of me ever dieting for any reason other than imminent death is laughable, so--huh.
On the third hand, in heels, I am so very, very tall, and man do I get a kick out of that still.
Yes, pointless entry here. Tamales. That, my friends, is what makes life worthwhile.
Fannish Project of Mystery has begun. Well, if by begin, you mean, kind of mostly decided.