I'm Not A Farmer's Daughter, But I Did Marry One

For the first time this year, I weighed myself this morning. Apparently, the trick mirror and trick waist-band conspirators I've been encountering  got to my scale, too. I admit I was a little overconfident about my weight, especially if that extra confidence weighed between eight and thirteen pounds. 

The good news is that I'm able to assume that this extra weight is muscle mass because of my six-day-a-week Planet Fitness habit. And it might be, too, at least the part that doesn't hang over my waistband; before I retired, I had calves that a 4H farmer's daughter would have been proud to show, and even now they're a mass of well-defined ropiness. 

Last week Hallmark thrilled, maybe even overexcited, their target demo of little old ladies by having a Diagnosis Murder/Matlock crossover event.  The next day, they gradually dialed back the excitement by having Mannix check in to Community General. My calves may be ropy, but they're not made of steel;  we're still a little tingly.