Fatass

I work in a high-surveillance location. We, and everyone else around us, are tracked by proximity cards that log us through every door, identification and passphrases and code numbers and.... well, a lot of crap, along with all the other Big Brother paraphernalia necessary to do a damned thing in society today. An annoyance, but more-or-less understandable given the Way Things Are these days.

In fact, about three months ago, we installed four new IR-capable, motion-detecting, secure-server cameras just to cover our immediate office, which is NOT that large, both to keep track of stuff that's coming and going (as well as who's coming and going it) and to allow us to see who's trying to get access to our secure area before we open the door (a restricted proximity-card and physical lock operation.) Those cameras are arranged so that every internal door and the single outside/access door and hallway into the office are covered, as well as much of the open floor space, but none of the actual work areas, since it turns out that with the exception of retail and 7-11 clerks, most people don't like working with a camera stuffed up their asses 24/7.

Another issue for another day.

Anyhow, the feed from these videos is split between a recording server where several days worth of activity is kept and a big-screen TV with a multiple-camera display so we can all see them real-time (ref: "Who's at the door?" above.)

Shortly after this latest upgrade to the system, I came in one afternoon from lunch, and was wandering more-or-less toward my work area to take up a reasonably horrifying piece of work I was trying to get finished, and  I caught motion out of the corner of my eye. I stopped cold. There I was on that damned big-screen, in all my realtime/IR false color glory .

Wait. That's ME? THAT lump? Holy Christ on a cracker, I'm used to being surprised at how old I am virtually every time I look in a mirror, but a full-body, high-resolution, real-time video of me waddling my fat ass across the floor was a full-on horror-show shock. Jaysus, no wonder! *I* wouldn't fuck that balloon animal, and I *like* me. What are the odds anyone *else* is going to be interested?

Yeah, yeah. I'm married, and theoretically not interested in what women think anyhow. I mean, my poor wife has had to put up with this tub o' bacon-bits dressed up in her husband's clothes and even feign interest now and then, which is bad enough, but you know what I mean.

Or if you don't I'll send you a video camera.

So, anyhow, I was checking this morning for the first time in a couple of weeks (I hardly ever weigh - I go by what's in the mirror. Or the video.) and I'm down about 35 pounds.

It's been an enormously high-stress bit right through here, and maybe that's some of it. But I suspect being someplace where I inescapably have to watch myself on video all the time was more directly involved. Yay Big Brother!

And, with that, I've now devolved into the lowest form of bloggery. I'm practically Gweneth Fucking Paltrow. 
  
Tomorrow we'll discuss where to donate doilies that are just too worn out for you but are fine for doily-poor ordinary people, what I had for lunch (probably Jalapeno Soup at that one place where the chef knows how to make Jalapeno Soup that is the next best thing to a whole-body orgasm, but that will cripple you for the rest of the day, much like doing things that result in a whole-body orgasm now that I think of it,) a cute kitty video, and some of my very own bestest personal thoughts on deep thoughts.

No where to go but up from here.