I know I'm not fat. And I don't think I'm overweight, by the "technical" definition that has to do with height and the corresponding "ideal weight" as displayed on those posters you used to see in high school nurses' offices. In fact, recently various family members who do not see me regularly made comments about how I "look good," slimmer. My aunt said so. My mom even used the word "buff," but I think she must have been talking about polishing something. So I stepped on a scale today, and was shocked. I'm 10 pounds lighter than the last time I can remember stepping on that same scale. When the needle rested two ticks past 160, I was quite pleased. A few months ago, I was happy to be below 175. I even remember touching 180 a couple of years ago.

I can't think of what I can attribute it to, though living on my own might have something to do with it. When you're out there having to make the grocery shopping decisions on your own, you're not so quick to buy a bag of Doritos just because. In fact, I'm probably better off -- physically, not financially -- satisfying my chips cravings with those tiny 50- and 75-cent bags in the vending machines at work rather than a 16-ounce bag, or however big they are.

The point of all this? Well, today I squatted to pick something up off the floor, and my pants ripped. It was just like in the movies, when you hear the exaggerated, textured "Rrrrrrrip!" Well, not my "pants" as in Dockers, but my shorts. And not "shorts" as in my blue mesh pair with the interlocking "ND" on one side, but my boxers. My "undies" as Moom calls them. But they are an old pair of boxers, ones that already had a small hole I always seemed to forget about until I put them on, and then they're already on so what's the point in changing them? But this rip is pretty big, creating a vent in the back, so it's time to dispose of them. Though I did have the passing thought of keeping them and then having them literally ripped off in a moment of passion, just for the hell of it.

Speaking of moments of passion, an era ended in my bedroom here at my parents' house yesterday. For the first time in roughly 15 years (as best I can remember), my bed was on the floor. When I was in sixth grade, my parents took me to a furniture store in a mall that no longer exists and bought me a loft bed, complete with closet and dresser, the latter of which fit beneath the lofted bed. I loved it, particularly because my room is -- and this is no joke -- smaller than most college dorm rooms. Including those at schools like Notre Dame, which have hundreds of rooms in 80-year-old dorms that were fine for 5-foot-5 priests-to-be with minimal possessions in the 1920s. But my room here, above the kitchen in this 182-year-old house, is smaller than many closets I've seen. Really. So everything fit wonderfully -- if snuggly -- with my desk and dresser beneath the bed, a closet in the corner, and another desk (really a wide waist-high shelf) built into the wall.

But now with my desk and dresser up in Edgewater, and my parents longing to use the room for more than storage (my sister is hosting several friends here during the long Fourth of July weekend), they cleaned up the room and yesterday we disassembled the loft.

But, oh, I had good times in that lofted bed. I cracked the ceiling -- it's still there -- when I was reading one night and, for no reason at all, put me feet up on the ceiling. Without realizing it, I straightened my knees enough to where I cracked the panel. One night while sleepwalking -- the only time I know of that I've done that -- I stepped out of bed. Only I did so as if it were a low bed on the floor. I fell the five feet to the floor, landing on my feet. I barely woke up, saw my dad who had rushed in standing in the doorway, and calmly told him nothing was the matter as I climbed my ladder back up to bed. I had a stiff back for a week after that. I rearranged the desk and dresser beneath the bed several times by myself, but really it only consisted of swapping places. On Christmas mornings, my sister would climb the ladder to wake me, usually with tubby Oreo in her arms. He'd often scratch and claw his way up the ladder when my door was open and curl up to sleep at the foot of the bed. And, of course, I brought a girl up there once or twice. In fact, Casey and I sat up on that bed watching TV the morning of Sept. 11.

In removing the dresser, there was a dust buildup so thick that the dark brown carpet was actually gray in some areas. Once we took down the loft, there was a quarter-inch indentation in the carpet, small rectangles that hadn't seen daylight in 15 years. The framed autographs of NFL receivers Raghib and Qadry Ismail that were hung on the wall next to the desk beneath the loft were now at navel height (standing) rather than head height (sitting).

But I'm 25, and I've tired of climbing the ladder anytime I spend the night here. I like the look of the room now, even though the wall with the shelves is still a mess and will remain so until I can figure out just what the hell to discard, and how the hell to organize what I keep.

Just another step in the long process of growing up and growing older.