We spent the weekend visiting our friends south of us. We went for a hike to the ghost town of Charleston. It's not a ghost town like you'd see in them there talky motion pictures. It's just a few adobe walls that have survived the 127 years of Arizona weather since they were constructed. One of the problematic parts of the hike was having to cross a rather wide stream. If this seems odd to you, keep in mind that we're in Arizona. A puddle is enough to make us stop and stare, so an actual body of flowing water is like unto an alien life form for other people. It's been a damp summer, so there was evidence of flooding. A lot of flooding.
The water was about 20 feet wide for the most part, and anywhere from a few inches deep to a couple of feet. However, there was evidence of floodwaters rising about 20-30 feet on both sides of the existing water level. Oh, and quite a bit higher. About ten feet, probably more, judging by the debris wrapped around trees and well out of my reach. Pretty neat stuff.
Oh yeah. While hiking, I was wearing shorts. It's all I had. That marked one of the very few times in my life I've uttered: "I wish I was wearing pants!" and actually meant it. Those were not the pants to which I alluded in the title of the post. If you've ever had your weight fluctuate, you have at least one pair of pants that you plan on wearing "some day". Since the weather has cooled off here, we got the jeans out of the closet and I actually tried on my "some day" jeans. Jeans that were ridiculously, circulation-inhibitingly, breathtakingly tight (for all the wrong reasons) in New York yet have come across country all the same in the vain hope that "some day" I'd fit in them again. I put them on.
They fit.
I've lost 30lbs since we moved, but I know I still need to lose more. Knowing that, I've never really felt like I've accomplished much in the weight loss department. Until today, when I wore my "some day" pants. All damn day.
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