Why Eat Less When You Can Eat More?

In France, I quickly learned, sandwiches and salads remain the black sheep of the menu. In France, ordering only one course elicits shame and ridicule. I refer you to Le Foch, the posh restaurant in Reims, where the waitress made an executive decision. Along with the simple fish dish I asked for, I'd also be consuming the smoked quail appetizer avec cesar glacé and volcans de chocolat for dessert. Otherwise, I'd be just sitting there, pathetically watching the others eat. In France, that's a non-non. Given the 10-day eat-a-thon, the orgy of cheese and baguettes, champagne, wine, and all kinds of nirvana, I've made an important New Year's resolution. I'm not getting on the scale, you can't make me. I'm giving myself a week or two, a month, a year, however long it takes to zip up one pair of jeans without keeling over in pain.

Who could say no to this?

My family, however, turns out to be so much braver than moi. One by one, these people who, just between us, ate so much more than I did, stepped on the scale within a day of our return, and announced the results, thusly:
"Guess what?"
"What?"
"I weighed myself."
"And?"
"I lost a pound."
Or, the alternate version:
"I didn't gain any weight."
Each time, I said this, with zero sincerity:
"I'm so freaking happy for you."
But one declaration of victory over gluttony wasn't enough. They had to regale me again, thusly:
"I can't believe I lost a pound."
Or, the alternate version:
"I can't believe I didn't gain any weight."
Each time, I said this, bitterly:
"I heard you the first time."