Drop Kick.

I don’t know who the Einstein was that thought that there should be a scale in our hotel bathroom this past weekend. I mean, did they think that I would pretend it wasn’t there and not weigh myself? Certainly not. You’d think for $159 a night I could escape the guilt of my eating habits but no, there’s the scale, waiting to remind me that my fitness routine is at a stand still.

The hotel scale does “airborne” well. It held up much better than the digital scale we have at home.

I don’t know what I thought would happen when I jumped on the scale Sunday morning. I mean after Saturday’s tasty lunch in Chinatown, a stop at Bertucci’s for supper, a cannoli and a chocolate chip cookie at Quincy Market and a beer at The Alley, did I really think I was going to spin a low number on the blasted thing? Of course not. To celebrate the fact that “tilt” didn’t pop up in glorious technicolor, I had three waffles, half a pig of bacon and some hash, all swimming in maple syrup, for breakfast. Then it was on to D’Angelo’s on the Masspike for lunch, where I was quite proud of myself for only having a medium sandwich instead of the large.

Today it was vegetables, fruit and a dollop of tuna for lunch. And water. Lots of water. I’ve peed more today than I did the entire weekend.

At least the “tilt” light is still off.