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When I am around a scale, I cannot resist it. 254.

I am not supposed to think about numbers. I do. I think about numbers all the time. I think about the numbers on the scale and the numbers that are my measurements and the numbers that are my clothing sizes. But you cannot make plans on numbers that slide on their own. It is infuriating.

I am sitting here and watching my boyfriend's TV show about Art and thinking about this stuff. That, too, is infuriating.

But sometimes one realizes all over again that this is everywhere, and today is one of those days. I read Glamour because my sister had it lying around—using it as a surface on which to make notes for Christmas presents, in which discussion she asks me, "So what's your size, these days?" (hers is a 6—used to be a 12)—and I have, finally, done what is considered such a symptom, the sectionalizing of the body. But I've done it now. I've broken myself down into parts. I have found saddlebags on my thighs. Things I hate: my breasts; my upper arms; my inner thighs.

There's the boyfriend's credit.