Eleven weeks. Seventy-seven days. No bread, no rice, no sugar, no fun. No poetry; my brain so fogged I’m barely able to compose prose. Woe be unto those who cross my path for I am vexed for lack of vittles! But, with the pain there is the proverbial gain (um, loss). I have not yet reached coach class nirvana nor the Valhalla of sizes without a “W” in them, but I do share the pride and pose of this sexy beast.