I conducted an unscientific experiment with my own body. I stopped working out for a week, drank heroic quantities of Dionysus's tears, sacrificed sleep to Hypnos, traveled along the edge of the arriving night as Hermes, shamed myself in the usual ways, of course, then some new ways, finally returning withered to the gym this morning.
When I stepped on the scale I was happy to note that I had lost some weight, but as soon as I started working out I quickly realized that it was mostly muscle mass. My strength and endurance were gone, after only one week. So, I'll struggle through this week to get back to where I was, likely gaining some weight in the process.
I have been eating like Hercules.
It was foolish of me, of course, to set a numerical weight loss goal and then dive into working out. Muscle is a bit denser than fat, so it looks nicer on the body, but if the goal is only to lose weight then taking on muscle only makes me happier about the slower progress towards that goal. I suppose I could chop a leg off, that's sure to make the scale jump in the right direction, if I don't break it hopping up onto it.
Well, I must go tussle with the local gods and titans. My travels are over for this breath in the falling pages of the calendar.
It is to this life I must now concern myself, not the other, out along the morning desert horizon, dancing with the lambs of Diana.