Officially fat

And so I'm (almost) officially fat: the needle (or in this case, the digital readout) on the dial is nudging the "too heavy to be fun" mark after a weekend's overindulgence in Munich. Not that the weekend was a bad thing: for someone born and partially raised in Germany, a whole long weekend of beer, sausages and excellent saurkraut (as well as a stunning dancer of a wine and some civilised ravioli) is bad-foodie-indulgent heaven. But now I need to get serious (I mean really serious, not just a bit upset and moving a little bit closer to serious) about the weight. My weight. And of all things, this I know: there is no food in this world that I love more than the amount that I hate being overweight. There is no exercise (possibly with the exception of super-heavy indoor rowing) that I hate more than fat. And this, as the man might say, is a no-brainer.