On Clydesdales

I think Clydesdales are beautiful. I always have.

Years ago, my extended family used to gather at my grandmother's tiny house on the parade route of the local "Threshing Days" parade. It was the one time of year the extended family always gathered together. We ate, drank, and made complete fools of ourselves as the long, progression of parade entries went by.

We were known as the loudest house on the parade route. And (I think) the entrants appreciated our enthusiasm. My grandmother always got kisses from the politicians running for office. The younger cousins worked the parade participants for extra candy, stickers, pencils, and plastic visors.

My favorite part, however, was always the Budweiser Clydesdales. They were GIANT, and they clop-clop-clopped down the street like so many . . . . well, like so many Clydesdales.

It's probably this sweet memory of gatherings at my grandmother's house that recently saved my husband's life.

You see, my beloved husband, whom I now weigh LESS than for the first time in our married life, has informed me that I'm a Clydesdale.

This is NOT a term of endearment any dieting woman is likely to appreciate.

(In his defense, he called himself a Clydesdale, too.)

I THINK he was trying to be complimentary. You see, I've recently started jogging on the treadmill, and I'm toying with the idea of signing up for a 5K run sometime this spring. A former hack half-marathoner, my beloved husband took this new hobby of mine as an opportunity to "educate" me on some common running terms.

Apparently a Clydesdale in runner-speak is an overweight runner who moves with all the grace of a draft horse.

Oh, well. They're still gorgeous creatures.

Just like me.

It's been a good week. I hit 65 pounds down this week.

Current weight: 231. 4

Woot!