I Miss the Pound

Let me clarify...not the British pound. Please. As if the euro's almighty power over the dollar hasn't already made me want to jump off a cliff. No, I'm talking about that unit of measurement which has disappeared from my life these past couple of months.

It's bad enough that I miss out on the full dramatic effect of my friends' stories ("I swear, he was over two meters tall!" or "And then to make things worse, we had to drive 40 kilometers to the next town!") or that I don't know what 16 degrees feels like. (My brain, though, has learned to calculate this general formula in 1.7 seconds: temperature x's 2 + 30). However, the real bugger is the kilo.

A reminder to my American friends: 1 kilo = 2.2 pounds

Although I am generally unable to imagine any type of distance or weight, I can sort of envision 2.2 pounds of potatoes. However, this does not mean that I want 2.2 pounds of potatoes. Yet, I quickly learned when going to the neighborhood market that you cannot ask for less than a kilo of anything. At first, I thought I was getting snowed as a foreigner. I purposely learned the phrase "halbes kilo" (half kilo) to make sure that I didn't make the same mistake as I did the first time. (I had come home with an overflowing bag of spinach that was coming out our ears for days simply because I was too chicken not to play by their rules. Hence, my acquired talent in regards to spinach soup, spinach omelets, spinach with applesauce - that one was to trick the baby- among many others).

Regardless, I have no idea how to get the Turkish guys at the market to give me less than a kilo of anything without the accompanying huge sigh or eye roll. The other day, when I asked for one avocado, you would have thought I had asked him to squirt the contents of it directly into my mouth. SHEESH! Then again, there are plenty of people around me who are apparently feeding army brigades. Their carts are overflowing with massive quantities of fruits, vegetables, fish, cheese, and bread. Then there's me, trying to buy three little kiwis, desperately hoping not to be abused in the process.

But even worse than my inability to envision and more imporantly assess the appropriateness of a kilo of cabbage in our apartment is my inability to accurately gauge my own expanding girth. Sure, the grunting and shimmying that is now involved when donning my favorite jeans is a bit of an indication that someone's getting a little tubby. So is the panting that results from biking just a few subway stops away. Yet, without a proper scale at my disposal, it hadn't truly sunk in.

The first time I stepped on the bathroom scale at our sublet, I felt like I was sucked into some kind of time warp. Double digits?!?!? Am I in third grade?? My mind could not compute. I had to walk into the other room, fire up the laptop, find a conversion website and then I understood what was normal for me in kilos.

But recently, I decided (against my better judgment) that it was time to recheck the ole' weight status. I figured if I had a visual of numbers, taunting me in red blinking lights, I'd feel more compelled to stop patronizing the local cake shop. So I quickly stepped on the scale and noticed that the number had only gone up two notches. Ahh, no big deal, I thought. Maybe I'm just retaining a little water. There's certainly no need to deny myself of baked goods!

And then suddenly, I remembered. I didn't just gain a couple of pounds. Kilos, stupid. A couple of kilos actually equals five pounds. Five pounds! In one month's time?!? Unless there's a zygote inside of me, there is no good reason for this! Feeling quite certain of my zygotelessness, I had flashbacks to last week's "cake for dinner" bonanza and felt completely ashamed.

Since I enjoy others being miserable with me, I was comforted to learn that Jack's mother can't button certain pants either. Therefore, we made a pact that we would commence a cleanse this week. I'm not talking some crazy lemonade/cayenne pepper deal. I mean lots of fruits, veggies, rice, and tea and absolutely no bread, dairy, alcohol, or refined sugar. This decision was made shortly after we polished off the nutella in the fridge alongside a bottle of red at 3 am.

So forgive me if my next post is a little grumpy. I may be experiencing the shakes or something. Or maybe I'll actually be all calm and serene in my detoxification. Who knows? All I know is that I damn well better get into my favorite skirt again. Berlin, you already know you've got my heart. Don't try to steal my clothes, too.