Fuck you, Christmas Flu.

For Christmas, after my son finished getting 3 stitches in his face and we got home from the ER, I proceeded to get violently ill.  Like real, come-to-Jesus, cussing at the toilet kind of sick at 3 AM.  I will spare you the horrid details of what I did to myself in various bathrooms around my house, but you get the idea.  Wretched stomach bug.  It was fast moving though, so I woke up Saturday sometime, sort of shaking the worst of it off, and out of morbid curiosity I decided to weigh myself.  167.   Yikes.  I hear with Ebola you can lose 10 lbs/day.  I guess I lost about 8 lbs in 36 hours.  So I wasn't quite Ebola-sick, but still pretty wretched.

Now as a cyclist, a sport where the basic value of power-to-weight ratio is a coveted thing, what's the first thing you do when you get a reading like that?  You let your riding buddies know.  So I took a photo of the scale and texted it to C-ham.

I won't be publishing that picture here for a couple of reasons, which I'll expand upon now, and since this is a bike blog I feel this is a subjectively relevant PSA:

1)  That whole power-to-weight ratio thing only acts in your benefit when you actually have power.  So bragging about the weight part of the equation makes very little sense when you're only riding twice/week through the holidays while sitting around on your slobby haunches slurping up the eggnog dregs.  In short, regardless of what the scale says, you still suck.

2)  When you take a picture of the scale while standing on it, and you're naked because it's first thing in the morning, and the scale has a glass surface which yields a clear reflection, and you send that photo to your buddy, you've effectively just sexted him a photograph of your emaciated taint.
And I think you can go to jail for that.

Fuck you, Christmas Flu.

Nowhere to go from here but up, up, up.