I thought that, as I started exercise again, it’d make me so hungry I’d eat as much as four people (I already eat as much as two, according to the packagings, but that might be because I buy my food in the small dogs aisle) and it’d cancel out my effort, but the opposite is happening: I’m less hungry than before. As if, instead of burning my fat, my abs were pushing toward the inside and taking my stomach’s space. But it’s the result that counts (well, of course, it’s not quite visible from the outside yet, because before I lose the fat I have to reconstruct some of the muscle), and the outlook is better now that I can do a 45-minute routine without articulatory pains.

On the other hand, I find myself almost unable to get back to reading. Which, now that I think of it, could very well be related: maybe all my brain cells fell down to the abs and thighs. (At least those that were left after the great puberty exodus.) And I’d been dreaming of a lobotomy for so long!

Or it’s just spring. Or depression. Or boredom. Or anxiety. Hey, yeah, I’ve got plenty of reasons to be anxious these days — and waiting for the new Macs to be announced is the most benign of all.