And I didn't even cheat this time.

Darling invisible friend, I haven't bored--ahem, regaled you with tales of drama and woe lately, have I? Oh, you're right, let me be specific. I haven't regaled you with tales of drama and woe in regards to Weight Watchers lately, have I?

And by lately, I mean within the last five minutes.

Obviously, your abuse level is sadly diminished. We shall rectify this immediately.

Yes, we do "have to." Silly rabbit.

So last week, I had an...unsuccessful weigh-in. Oh, it was successful in that I stepped on the scale and my weight was accurately measured, but my numbers went up. Not down. Up.

Btw, they're aren't supposed to do that. In case you wondered.

Anyway, I gained--gained! Gah!!--3.6 pounds last week. 1.5 kilograms for the metrically-minded.

I found this distressing.

Much like the time I met with an endocrinologist. Delightful man. I adore him. I sat in his exam room and showed him the diet diary and exercise logs I'd been keeping, and told him, "To work this hard, and to have gained weight is [pause in which I struggled for self-control and verbal filters] distressing."

My doctor, who was born and raised in western Oklahoma, stared at me incredulously for a moment then uttered these words:

"Yer not distressed, yer pissed off."

Love that man.

Anyway. I had gained 3.6 pounds/1.5 kg, and for this, I blamed Roommate. Okay, it wasn't all her fault. But it was partly her fault. Why? Because she is TURBO HORMONE WOMAN.

I shall explain. You see, it doesn't matter how anyone else is cyclically situated. Enough time with Roommate, and all cycles will be synced to hers. I was fine, until Roommate started her hormonal surge and then, WHAMMO! Cramps, bloating and salt cravings--oh my! Yes, I ate an ocean's worth of salt that week. Yes, I was retaining water like Hoover Dam. But was it because of my timing? No. No. All hers.

I think Roommate should dress up as THW for Halloween. Do you think there'd be a cape requirement for this costume?

Anyway.

I made not-so-great food choices, ate an insufficient volume of produce and voila, 3.6 pounds. I wasn't freaked out or ridiculously upset; I figured I'd earned part of it. And on the upside, Roommate was much less upset by her own 2.4 pound gain, as it was significantly less than my gain. Competitive little snot that she is.

I say that with love, btw.

This week was going to be different. I knew it. Roommate knew it. She was a trifle downcast--no, not downcast. That's too much for Roommate and her famous even keel. She wasn't filled with hopeful anticipation. After all, for a net loss to occur, she would have to lose more than 2.4 pounds. Her hope was to have lost the 2.4 pounds she'd gained, though, she said in an Eeyore-like fashion, this would mean she had just stayed the same for two weeks in a row. I suggested that she might have lost all of 3 pounds, making her average weight loss for the past two weeks a whopping 0.3 pounds per week!

And I got a Look.

You can imagine my delight when Roommate actually did lose 3 pounds. Heh. No, I didn't say I told you so. I wanted to. But I didn't. Well, I said something, but it wasn't exactly that.

Yes, this does, too, count.

Now, in regards to my weigh-in, I was a trifle more reserved. I knew that losing a nice round [no pun intended] number like 4 pounds would give me a two-week average of 0.2 pounds per week. I also knew that I had only lost that much weight once before. Realistically, my recovery from this gain would likely take more than one weigh-in.

By-the-bye, I don't think 4 is a particularly round number. It's really rather pointy. Look at it.

But I digress.

I congratulated Roommate and stepped on the scale. And...

5 pound loss.

I have no idea how it happened. But I will take it.