It has now been officially three days since all of us have begun living in the Anne Frank’s attic. So far no one has killed each other, although there have been close calls.

You see, literally the moment N walked into the dorm room he pointed at each of us, including himself, and said “you’re fat, you’re fat, i’m fat, we’re all going on a diet.” Then proceeded to whip out a spreadsheet to chart our progress.

[side note: when I told the lady to whom I teach ESL, she said, “Ooohh (in a caring, sad way), but I don’t think you(long pause)r husband’s fat.” That made me laugh. And then I immediately began a lesson on what not to say to women in the American culture.]

Here is the said spreadsheet.

Um.. Rude.

After I recovered from the shock of this multi-colored excel sheet of hell, he asked “So do you know what we’re all doing next? We’re going to the bathroom.”

I laughed, thinking he meant that we were all going to literally go to the bathroom… you know, like Numero Dos. And then I saw N wasn’t laughing. He really was waiting for us to go the bathroom.

Uh, this is weird. But hey, there are magazines in there I guess… WAIT. The scale is in the bathroom.

And like a dog being drug to the vet, I was pushed onto that small piece of unhappiness. How can such evil come from a simple machine?

After they coaxed me out of the closet and convinced me that no more harm would be done, R shoved me into the kitchen and ordered a ‘before’ photo be taken.

We made it through, marriage intact. N still lives with us, too. Barely. We’ve started P90X and I haven’t been this sore since high school.

It is definitely no holds bar. But we’re only on day 3, and I already feel more energetic. Maybe not necessarily happier. R said, “Yeah.. Let’s all live in a dorm room, dramatically cut our calorie intake and start a really hard workout.” There have been some bumps, but we’ll get through.

This is going to be a good thing.