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Author's Notes: Just a bit of encouragement. <g>


Exercise in Futility
by
Besterette

Besterette@aol.com

 

They had a bathroom scale. Blair had noticed it, as kind of out of place, not really a guy-thing, but had never asked about it. He figured it had been Carolyn's, and Jim never threw away anything that was still useful, whether he actually used it or not. So they had a bathroom scale.

It was a rainy Sunday, there was nothing on television, he had no homework to do, and nothing to read, and he was getting antsy. Jim was watching something about military blunders on one of the cable channels, half dozing and muttering back at the announcer. Blair did a little picking up in his bedroom, made his bed, and then decided to take a shower.

A shower he could drag out for a little while. Wash, rinse, repeat. He conditioned his hair, to help ward of the humidity, and blew it dry. Brushed and flossed his teeth, then trimmed his finger and toenails, inspecting his left big toe since it had a tendency to go ingrown. He did a quick inventory of the medicine cabinet.

And then he stepped onto the scale. Just because it was there. He weighed 170. He always weighed 170. It was on his driver's license. The numbers spun and the needle stopped. At 175. Blair stared down at it. Stepped off the scale, and glanced down at himself. Same wiry build, solid, no flab, no obvious place where an extra five pounds might have attached itself.

Still... too many wonderburgers grabbed with Jim on the run, nachos and pork rinds on Poker Night...

He stepped on the scale again. 175.

No big deal. He'd always been an active, health conscious kind of guy, and if he could put on five pounds without noticing, he was sure he could lose them again, now that he had. Cut down on snacks, get a little more exercise. No problem.

For a week, he had only his algae shake for breakfast. Fruit or salad for lunch. Fruit or veggies for snacks. Parked a little farther back in the lot, took the stairs instead of the elevator. And after his shower one morning, stepped onto the bathroom scale.

175.

For the second week, he had only his algae shake for breakfast, skipped lunch on Tuesday and Thursday to walk around campus. Fruit or veggies for snacks. Parked a little farther back in the lot, took the stairs instead of the elevator and after his shower one morning, confidently stepped onto the bathroom scale.

175.

For the third week, he had only his algae shake for breakfast, skipped lunch on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday to go to the gym. Fruit or veggies for snacks. Parked a little farther back in the lot, took the stairs instead of the elevator, and ate only salads and grilled chicken or fish for dinner.

And he was hungry and sore all the time, and snapped a lot at Jim, who was oblivious and kept bringing things like lasagna and miniature powdered sugar donuts into the loft. But Blair was determined. His body was his temple, and he was going to lose this five pounds if it killed him.


Jim had just finished shaving when he noticed the bathroom scale. He sighed, remembering that he had that annoying physical again soon. Wouldn't hurt to check his weight, to double check what the doc said. He didn't really trust doctors, not since the return of his senses. If they couldn't tell he had hyperactive senses with all those tests they had run, what else might they be missing? It was a fairly scary thought.

Anyway, he was pretty sure he knew what he weighed. 200 pounds. He always weighed 200 pounds. It varied very little. He worked out, kept himself in shape. He stepped on the scale.

205.

Frowning, he stepped back off the scale, and glanced down at himself. No sign of that middle-aged spread Connor had teased him about. He looked down at the scale, and zoomed in with his sight, seeing the problem. He bent over, and nudged the little calibration dial, setting it precisely at zero. There. He stepped back on the scale. 200. All was right with the world.

He dressed, and went out to fix himself breakfast, and to free up the bathroom for Blair. The kid didn't seem to be in a breakfast mood lately, just making that green gunk and coasting to lunch.

"Morning Chief."

The younger man grunted in response, and went into the bathroom. Jim fixed himself a quick breakfast and sat down to eat. He was cleaning up when Blair came back out. "Good morning Jim," he sang out cheerfully, opening the fridge and getting the eggs back out. And the cream cheese, and the lox, and grabbing the bagels from the breadbox.

Jim just shook his head, vaguely wondering what was up with the kid, but afraid to ask. Blair might tell him. And the Sandburg Zone was a nice place to visit but he didn't want to live there, any more than he absolutely had to.

~ End ~


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Page last updated 8/15/03.