Behind the 8-(butter)ball

I bought a bottle of wine on the walk home from dinner last night.  A Pinot Noir from Oregon.  I have known for a long time that Oregon produces some tasty Pinot, though admittedly this assurance comes only from having tried Willamette Valley ones.  I know I tried a Californian Pinot once too, but the memory of that bottle hasn't stayed with me so as as result, when it comes to Pinot, I've been on Team Oregon ever since. 

On this occasion I decided to stretch out a bit and try a bottle from "Oregon" which, I should have realised, is about as specific as an Aussie wine that comes from "the southeast".  I really should know better, shouldn't I?  And yet the varietal and state were right, and the price-point was reasonable, so I jumped in.  There is seriously something to be said for trusting one's instincts.  The wine did not please me, not even after the second glass (when so many things usually please me).

I mention all this because in the midst of my wine-tasting experiment, I was also doing my knee exercises.  Standing on one leg and bending my knee with a resistance Theraband, a thought occurred to me that bordered on brilliant.  I wondered whether losing 10 pounds would fix my knee.  After all, less weight on my body means less pressure on my knee, ergo less pain.  Right?  I poured another glass of wine to celebrate my genius.

So today was supposed to be the start of a bread-free week.  Only I was distracted at lunch by a tempting piece of Russian coffee cake, so I ended up ordering a vegetable foccaccia, instead of a vegetable frittata.  Stupid coffee cake.  I bought that too.

The only thing saving me from myself at the moment is my Pilates studio, which keeps sending me discounted lesson plans.  My gym has changed hands now and has become one of those sweaty juggernauts full of young, hip athletes and over-the-top instructors teaching high-energy classes that I'm not sure I'd survive.  Banned as I've been from the treadmill (thanks to my physical therapist), I might just have to sit on a stationary bike for a while and suss things out. 

And maybe when I'm out of wine, foccaccia and Russian coffee cake, I can have another go at losing those 10 pounds.  My knee will surely thank me.