Seventy Left

Coming in from the patio, I told the boyfriend, “The smoker’s started; I got us Flintstone size ribs this time.”

“As long as they’ve got at least as much meat as fat.”

“Don’t go casting stones in glass houses.”

Not that he actually would be. He’s doing greaton Atkins, as a matter of a fact. For the first time in memory, the guy is under 200 pounds.

He called me this weekend because he had been given a written warning for doing sidewalk art on campus. “That’s no the important part,” he said, “the cop asked me if I was 180 or 190!” That’s when I really realized to what degree weight-loss makes optimists out of us. If the whole world could have monthly increases of sex appeal, we could stave off WW3 for at least another decade. Although when the shit finally went down, we’d all be freaking ravenous.