I don’t know if I mentioned this, but last week I cracked and took the scale out of the car and weighed myself. And then I weighed myself again, and again, and again, all week long. Because you know, I needed to see what the impact of that two days of bingeing was. And I was freaking out and blah blah blah.

I got dressed this morning and put on my favourite black pants. I’ve had these pants for over two years, and I love them. They seem to have a magical hemline that works with any shoes I wear with them (and believe me, I change my shoes a lot to get comfy feet).

Except for today. Today, my pants are too long. Definitively, without question, too long. Those of you who have weight that cycles up and down know what that means: I’m smaller in the hips than I was the last time I wore these pants. Evidently, I’m smaller in the butt, too, as these pants no longer look good on me. They now suffer from that famous Kerry problem: too much fabric in the thigh. Yes, I am cursed by my lack of butt once again.

So, I immediately hopped on the scale and lo and behold, despite last week’s eating frenzy, I’m a little more than a pound lighter than I was the last time I weighed in (uh, on Friday). Since that doesn’t compute with my current pant issue, I’m going to say that I have definitely proven the theory that the scale is not the only relevant measure of weight loss success. Maybe we should call it something else? Size loss? Overall fitness improvement? Shrinkage?

Yes! Shrinkage! I’m sticking with that. My shrinkage is going well.