While Amber is out getting her hair cut, nails done, things waxed, exercising, and eating right, I've got my own regimen this week: not shaving. You see, I'm a shavetimer (word credit to Matthew Baldwin) and it's been something I've had to deal with all my adult life. Well, age 22 on, before that the hair grew so slowly and weakly that if I didn't shave I think the hair would get tired of hanging around and just fall out.

You see, it's so thin and spotty if there were a council on beards I would fail in the coverage test. Sent home before the sponginess and food adherence tests. I can see those jerky beard judges now, laughing underneath those curly Grecian beards.

Because of this, if I have an important meeting or just want to look normal on Monday mornings, I have to time my shaves so the hair is long enough to actually shave on the morning of my important thing. When it's still too short I'm just scrapping at my face with a really sharp blade. Only when it's of some length can I get a good, close shave.

The problem with this is I'm usually walking around with a weird pre-beard. If I come to meet you for something and my face has more than a little stubble on it, be assured I have something much more important than you coming up. I don't waste a shave for just anybody.

To have a good shave on our wedding day (Saturday) I went for broke and shaved this past Monday. This is a very lengthy amount of time but I wanted to have a really good shave. Three days is usually enough, so as you can probably guess my face is starting to look like I actually want a beard. Which is precisely what's so depressing about this stupid thing: I can't have a beard. I'll never be able to have a beard, yet everyone I come in contact with probably thinks I'm starting one up.

Other than the beard thing, I kind of fattened myself up this winter. I was 155 before Thanksgiving, and now I am...not 155. I've been trying this diet out called eat-all-you-want-to-deal-with-the-stress-of-paying-someone-a-thousand-dollars-to-make-a-music-playlist-and-then-hit-play. Don't even get me started on the paradox of eating to deal with the stress of paying someone to cook 50 meals. Yeah, I'm fat.

I just weighed myself on a digital scale. I say "digital" because before when it was all springs and counter-weights you could laugh it off with, "Oh things weigh more near the equator at sea level when it's cold!" or "it says 'not for legal trade', it's just an approximation!" or "they could have put the decal on crooked!" But being an engineer, when digital tells you your fat ass weighs 164, you know there's some memory chip charged to hold exactly "10100100".

Now I'm wondering how much this beard weighs.