I got off the scale the other morning and let everyone know I’m carrying around an extra six pounds.

“That’s like a whole baby,” I said.

“Not one of our babies,” Mike said. “Maybe a good sized house cat.”

If a shoe had been handy, I’d have thrown it at him. I’m not into cats.

I’ve rarely had any kind of problem with my weight, other than that time during my teens where I wished my thighs wouldn’t brush together and bunch up my gym shorts when I ran laps in PE.

Still, around here, I’m the designated person in charge of everybody’s diet and exercise regimen. The boys need regular prodding and reminders to eat properly in order to keep from turning into puddles of goo. Mike’s a total grouch if he doesn’t take care of himself. This ends up being my problem by virtue of my bossiness and the preference I have for not living with crabby slugs.