There are very few people who get the privilege of seeing me shirtless (even after 115 pounds just know that phrase was dripping with sarcasm.), and my wife is one of those select few. Last night, getting ready for bed, in a moment of Sawyeresque shirt shedding, my wife utters this sentence, "Wow, you're ripped!". After my throat was too sore to laugh anymore, I realized what she meant to say was, "You remember how you used to resemble a gigantic collection of tube socks full of pudding? Well, I don't see as much pudding, and when the light hits your arm just right I see what might be a muscle or two." Even knowing the amazing benefit of the doubt my wife's assessment of my physical stature entails, it's still nice to know that this whole process is paying off. If for no other reason than I am some sort of Adonis in my wife's eyes.
Back next week with more delusions of those who love me and hopefully another pound or two scampering away from my now chiseled exterior.