6:17 pm * 06.21.06

Boyfriend pitched a hilarious fit at the scale in the bathroom a couple months ago, which is why it is probably in some dump in Virginia as I type.

Recently we got one of those new-fangled ones that tells you 800 different ways just how out of shape you are. The numbers are slowly but surely coming down. Biking + tennis + pilates - eggplant parmigian - x/alcohol = better fitting jeans. I feel better. I won't say hand-me-my-bikini great. But better.

That said, I am feeling like a damned lump today. Boyfriend is out training for the century ride he's doing in September, and I'm sitting home with a glass of white wine and a grumpass mood. This too shall pass. I can't do it every day. Hell, they canceled pilates, what's a girl to do? Sassy and I will perform some of our balletic tennis tomorrow and I'll be back on the horse.

My Bridget Jones realization of the day: white skirts can be a bit see through. I walked around midtown Manhattan with both hands tugging my shirt down around my butt. It was a coin toss as to which looked more ridiculous - my skivvies somewhat showing through my skirt, or me looking like a complete dolt violently attempting to shove my shirt down to my knees while teetering on 3-inch heels. I chose the latter, and I think I picked the winner.

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