Boy am I glad I didn't fake my own abduction and bolt north to yonder Canadian foothills this morning. Not that it isn't a swell idea. But if I'd spent the a.m. manufacturing a crime scene I would have missed out on some delightful news.

Fridays are weigh-in days - the scale being the single blemish on an otherwise fine day of the week. Last Friday I discovered I'd gained a half pound. No sweat. No celebration either.

This morning, I lost nearly that half pound.

So what I'm saying is, I'm exactly where I started two weeks ago.

Fine. I'm not going to cry about it. At least not until I get to work and can duck into the supply closet like a respectable person.

Instead Catherine set we four Questers (no Rachel today, she's in NY) up on a circuit. First stop: push ups with an elevated lower body. And bent knees. Bent knees make it easier.

There were squats and curls and medicine balls in there too - enough to fatigue seemingly every muscle in my body after the first pass. But let's go 'round again just for good measure.

Rough work, it was. But it was still sweet to watch folks walk by The Landing windows while we worked out - and yell things like, "I'm strengthening my quads and finding a connected, happy place wherein my mind is at peace and the world's negative energy is repelled. Oh, but you got a breakfast sandwich, so I guess we're even."

After class, Catherine decided to measure my body fat percentage once again (the first time, two weeks ago) had revealed I was 31.7% fat. One-third fat. Even more disconcerting, the percentage that classifies an individual as "obese" is 30%. In case you're not putting this together, I was dumbfounded to find myself in that category.

I get that no one ever asks me what gym I go to - or if I can help open a stuck lid on a jar of peanut butter. But obese? Pshaw! I don't shop at big lady stores and I fit quite comfortably into the coach seats on any given airplane.

But there it was.

For two weeks I lived as an obese person. For two weeks no one really believed me. That might be because of that whole "I'm the heir to the Newman's Own fortune" lie I was busted in a few months back. Or it could be because our understanding of "obese" is, well, bigger. There's nothing subtle about the word - or the implication.

That stint is over though, since Catherine measured me this morning. Today: 29.2%. Obese no mo'. I'll remember the time fondly, however. Look of the memoir next summer.

I suppose losing 2% body fat in 14 days ain't nuthin' to sneeze at. If I keep this up, I'll be batting off Canadians with a stick. And isn't that what we all really want? To hit Canadians with sticks?