The Fish Bowl Effect

I've been sick for the past two weeks. (Still am, thanks for asking.) Every time I move I start hacking uncontrollably. Ergo not a lot of extra moving going on in my life right now. (Pavlov would've had it so easy with me.)

Now, since I've been as sedentary as possible, I've gained about four pounds. I've also gained a bunch of bruises. I'm knocking into things around the house I never used to. And after the initial annoyance and pain, I'm actually glad I do. The fish bowl effect will be my dietary salvation. You see, I'm growing too large for my domicile, so I'll have to slim down to avoid being covered in painful annoying boo boos.

A gold fish will grow to the proper size for its environs. Apparently, so do I. All this negative reinforcement of whacking body parts on furniture and door jambs will definitely help in my pursuit to lose the weight I gained. (Again, Pavlov is salivating in his grave just to get a piece of me to work on. I'm a natural at the conditioned response.)

This is also why I haven't gotten a bigger bed. The Man and I share a full sized bed. Neither of us are the slenderest of people, but we've been making do for the past twelve years. If one of us wants to lie on our backs, the other needs to lie on their sides. Some nights it's a sleepy chess match to fit, but it works.

We've been talking recently about getting a queen sized bed. And I've gotta tell you, citizens, it's making me a little nervous. If I have all that room, I have a feeling I'll be growing in size to fill it. That fear has kept me on the fence for years. But the mattress on ours is shot. Not a new thing, but it's even more shot than it was five years ago, so we're finally getting ready to actually do something about it.

The Man is gung ho on the queen sized dealio. He's tired of the nightly roll ballet. But I'm still dragging my feet. Because when it comes to food, I've got the control of a goldfish that will eat itself into a stupor and be content to float on the currents life throws its way. And if I can easily fit on a space I spend six to eight hours a day on, I know my subconscious mind will think it's time to hit the buffet.

Here's hoping the checks and balances of the negative reinforcing small house will be enough to keep me in line. I'm sure It'll turn out alright, as long as Pavlov is rooting for me from the Great Beyond. Did someone just hear a bell?