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Blustering wind, the birches bowled over between parallel raceways of brittle leaf and frayed cloud. The scale is stalled dead as an Edsel on a bad day.
The newly adopted 10 minute torture sessions and higher intake recommended by a friend do not appear to be as effective as the previous prescription. I'll likely change back after the first of the year. For now I feel great and truly spring out of bed in the morning. The old stiffness and random joint pain have abated completely. I'm swimming in my clothes with the exception of a magnificent leather coat I bought when I was 21. But it almost fits.
I'm going to coast a little over the holiday weekends--that's not to say I'll indulge in reckless abandon and wanton gluttony. I've never done that. But I do look forward to a couple home brews and crostini and slices of freshly made baguette with brie, and . . .
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