Walking.
I've been doing it for a while now. I believe it started right after my last day of "toddling". And, as many of our reputable physical/health/glossy mags will point out, it is the cheapest and yet most effective exercise regime around. We're not talking strolling here - we're talking arm-pumping power walking. The kind Lululemon-wearin' chiquita's can only do in pairs.
Prevention magazine has a seemingly effortless walking routine that will, over a month, shed a few inches and lose a few pounds. Gimme some of that. So, with Lululemon-esque pants (read: Zellers) and sweat wickin' shirt donned, I proceeded out my door to experience Day 1 of walking my ass off. Literally.
I won't miss my ass as I'll be keeping some of it. A mittful for the boys, dontcha know. But where there was once a bouncy W in my jeans there is now a jiggly kinda-V thing. Ick. No likey. So without the benefit of a hydraulic lift affixed to my hips, I'm gonna walk it up and tight like it once was.
Right, so this is the program: 5 min warm up, then 1 min moderately fast pace, 30 sec top pace and repeat 14 times. 5 min cool down. And voila! The road to Beautybumville is taken!
Everything is going tickety-boo when it starts: (Shatner voice) Shins...so...muchpain...in...sufficient warmup!
Walk it off. Breathe. A hill. OK, nothing to be scared of. Just breathe...there ya go, wasn't that...Another hill? Jeez, where did that come from? Fine, fine, 30 secs ain't gonna kil...are you serious? Man, it looks like a 90 degree incline. Push, push, (*gasp*) breathe. Just a little far...WTF??? Do I live in the Alps???
But on I plod; I can feel the heat of my face turning, no doubt, beet freakin' red. I look at my fancy-dancy sports watch with its interval timer (the nee-nee-nee, nee-nee-nee sounds like my oven timer...mmmm...oven of baking yumminess...mmmmm...huh? Wazzat? Focus, girl, focus!!). I'm half way done, so I figure I'll make my way home. 5 blocks. 5 easy blocks. And one incredible, unignorable desire to poo.
Oh c'mon, now!!! REALLY?!? You're gonna do this to me now?? And the answer came back: hell, yeah!
You will of course have gathered that my pace increased exponentially. It did, along with the insanely insistent need to void myself. The thing about walking really fast is that the body will commence an up n' down motion that, coupled with gravity, practically pulls at yer innards craving to be yer outards. I was clenching my butt so tight I coulda minted dimes. I Kegel-ed like no woman has Kegel-ed before. It. Wasn't. Working.
I began to concentrate intently on Hamlet's "To be or not to be" speech to get my mind off thangs (I use that speech to assess how drunk I am as well. Whole speech, have another. Midway, last one. As far as "or" and call me a cab.) So: To be or not to be, that is the question. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the shits and arrows of outrageous bathrooms and to take arms against a sea of toilets...
Oh fuck, I can see my house! So close, so close, so...holy crap. I feel the unmistakable sensation of a kernel of poo emerging towards freedom. This can't be happening! It's daylight! Mother of Christ, what have I done to deserve this? I'm an adult in a cruel world - what will the neighbours think??? ("There goes shitty-drawers.")
At last, my house! My door! I'm pulling my sticky-with-I-hope-is-sweat pants and make it just in time. Almost. The kernel had invited a friend.
Tide? Bleach? Tilex? Toss the damn undies.
That was Day 1. I'm on Day 3 now. I don't leave my house until I'm utterly, indisputably clear of numbers 1 and 2. Especially 2. Undies don't grow on trees. And I don't believe Depends come in "Sport" models.
Lili La Large
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
More to love
Please sir, I want some more.
Mooooore?!?!?!?
(Oliver Twist)
I want stuff and lots of it.
Greed is one of the seven deadly sins, and I'm a card-carrying member of the "Gimme Brigade". It is an integral part of my character. I got sticky fingers, ain't no denyin'. Not to a point of theft (the guilt would shatter me), or to a point of covetessness (one sin at a time), but if I see something and feel my eyes widen and my mouth round to an "O", yeah, I'm pretty much hooked.
What kind of stuff? Well, let's see now...
Houses
Clothes
Furniture
Dogs
Moonlit trysts
Books
Views
Hair
Sunlit trysts
Violins
Chauffeurs
Conversations
Sea air
Unlit by shadows trysts
Sparkly things
Paintings
Perfume
Poolboys
And a hat with a feather
I ache for this stuff. Some, I have none. Some, I have some. Some, I will have. Some, sadly, not. My itch for them lays somewhere under my dermis, ever present, but these things I regard as somewhat unattainable. Very, very special things that I only aquire if I feel I deserve them. Treats...if I can nab 'em.
You've no doubt noticed the lack of, or even the barest of hints of, food. For one who glories in the tasty, I don't really think I've got a greed on for food. Why? I'm guessing 'cuz it's all around me, all the time and I don't even think about it...is this ringing a bell?
My gimme-ness is based on, again, the rarity of some of my wants. The rarer the stuff in question (do they even have poolboys any more?), the more precious they appear to me. Food? Good heavens, I live in a first world country, the stuff farely pours out into the streets. And, to be honest, I look at it all and say, "Meh."
Today at the office, a local pizza joint delivered up a pizza, gratis. Just 'cuz. Was I hungry? Hell no, I had just had lunch. Did I have some? Heavens to betsy, 3 pieces. I channelled Sir Edmund Hillary - "It was there."
This was not a question of greed - there was plenty for all and I believe there are still leftovers - this was a question of "whatever". It's food. It's free. Eat it.
Wow. Automaton eating.
If I wasn't surrounded by the stuff, if it was a wee bit rarer, would I go about mindlessly face-stuffing myself? Nope, I don't think so. My greed is a puritanical one. I would take only what I needed, or only what I relished, give it the honour it deserves. In a way, the lessening of it would make it...well...even more.
I can't wave a wand and make all the food stalls disappear. I haven't the strength to hoist the office refrigerator off the balcony (thereby crushing the lovely on-the-house 'za delivery guy,and it's not his fault!). But I think what I'm gonna try and do is pause and think a bit. Like in my last blog, awareness is all. And, in this case, my take on greediness may even become a virtue.
And that would be a feather in my hat.
Mooooore?!?!?!?
(Oliver Twist)
I want stuff and lots of it.
Greed is one of the seven deadly sins, and I'm a card-carrying member of the "Gimme Brigade". It is an integral part of my character. I got sticky fingers, ain't no denyin'. Not to a point of theft (the guilt would shatter me), or to a point of covetessness (one sin at a time), but if I see something and feel my eyes widen and my mouth round to an "O", yeah, I'm pretty much hooked.
What kind of stuff? Well, let's see now...
Houses
Clothes
Furniture
Dogs
Moonlit trysts
Books
Views
Hair
Sunlit trysts
Violins
Chauffeurs
Conversations
Sea air
Unlit by shadows trysts
Sparkly things
Paintings
Perfume
Poolboys
And a hat with a feather
I ache for this stuff. Some, I have none. Some, I have some. Some, I will have. Some, sadly, not. My itch for them lays somewhere under my dermis, ever present, but these things I regard as somewhat unattainable. Very, very special things that I only aquire if I feel I deserve them. Treats...if I can nab 'em.
You've no doubt noticed the lack of, or even the barest of hints of, food. For one who glories in the tasty, I don't really think I've got a greed on for food. Why? I'm guessing 'cuz it's all around me, all the time and I don't even think about it...is this ringing a bell?
My gimme-ness is based on, again, the rarity of some of my wants. The rarer the stuff in question (do they even have poolboys any more?), the more precious they appear to me. Food? Good heavens, I live in a first world country, the stuff farely pours out into the streets. And, to be honest, I look at it all and say, "Meh."
Today at the office, a local pizza joint delivered up a pizza, gratis. Just 'cuz. Was I hungry? Hell no, I had just had lunch. Did I have some? Heavens to betsy, 3 pieces. I channelled Sir Edmund Hillary - "It was there."
This was not a question of greed - there was plenty for all and I believe there are still leftovers - this was a question of "whatever". It's food. It's free. Eat it.
Wow. Automaton eating.
If I wasn't surrounded by the stuff, if it was a wee bit rarer, would I go about mindlessly face-stuffing myself? Nope, I don't think so. My greed is a puritanical one. I would take only what I needed, or only what I relished, give it the honour it deserves. In a way, the lessening of it would make it...well...even more.
I can't wave a wand and make all the food stalls disappear. I haven't the strength to hoist the office refrigerator off the balcony (thereby crushing the lovely on-the-house 'za delivery guy,and it's not his fault!). But I think what I'm gonna try and do is pause and think a bit. Like in my last blog, awareness is all. And, in this case, my take on greediness may even become a virtue.
And that would be a feather in my hat.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Target Practice
Boflex 6 to Thighmaster 1. Thighmaster 1, do you copy?
I hear you. Go ahead.
We've just spotted nachos coming in on your left flank.
Roger that. I'll out-maneuver them. Banking right.
Negative! We're detecting tequila shots on fast approach!
On my right?? I don't see them!
Stay on course, Thighmaster!
Thighmaster 1 to Boflex 6, I need back-up! I...AAAARRGH!!!...Mayday! Mayday! 2 for 1 Taco Special! Repeat, 2 for 1 Taco Special!
Pull up! Pull up!
I've been hit!!
Happy Hour is a treacherous thing. The work-week has tested every molecule of patience and sanity you claim to be yours and now that it's Friday, you figure you've earned a reward. You rationalize that the energy you've expended over the last 5 days has somehow increased your metabolism and a coupla chips n' dip couldn't possibly hurt. Salsa? Why that's merely tomatoes, onions, peppers, herbs...veggies are good for you. Corn chips. Corn's a vegetable. Fried in vegetable oil. All good. Marguerita's are made from tequila which is from agave juice - a fruit! With lime! Vitamin C as far as the eye can see. And that salted rim merely replenishes the sodium you lost sweating over the Excel sheet from hell. You'll only have a handful of nachos and one marguerita. Claim your reward.
Now in my world, that "handful" isn't necessarily my hand size - picture Andre the Giant, his hands the size of Virginia hams and you get the idea. The one marguerita? Served in a fishbowl on a stem. My "reward" takes up half the table. I'll sit there with friends, yapping merrily away in my relief from surviving another week, mindlessly stuffin' and slurpin' and next thing y'know, Happy Hour turns into Happy Hours. And when I finally stand up...yow, I know I had my knees when I walked in! And why does everyone at my table have a twin? Ole...
Consciousness. Awareness. Both of these things are in woefully short supply when you are looking at food and drink as something other than what they are. They are NOT rewards! Food has been known to...wait for it...sustain life. And drinks? Well, in moderation, can enhance life. When a team wins a championship, or an actor wins an Oscar, they get a reward. Notice how it's called the Stanley Cup, not the Stanley Cupcake. You'll never hear, "And the Oscar Meyer Wiener goes to..." Food is wonderful. A full-bodied Merlot, a miracle. Give it some respect.
Teach yourself to slooooooow down. Stopping for a few freakin' seconds to give your brain and tummy time to realize Hey, that's tasty and Hey, something's going in! Shovelling food into one's maw denies your tongue the pleasure of doing its job - recognizing the tasty. An alignment of stars and a heady happenstance of chemicals has made much of the stuff from Muddah Nature undeniably yummy, so give it some time. And some reverence. Give credit to the carroty carrot, the chickeness of the chicken. Relish your relish with relish. Mind you, there is a sword, and it's double-edged: don't be (like me) enslaved by the tasty. I looooove the taste of food so much sometimes, I wanna keep on tasting it, and the only way to do that is keep on eating it (Ahhh, lasagna, we meet again!). Unless....
I slow down. Pick up fork. Stab food. Insert into hole directly below nose. Chew. A lot. Swallow. Put the fork down. Count down. 10, 9 ,8...
1.
Repeat.
One's tum will register as satisfied if you've given it the time to, well, digest the idea that it's being fed. That's when it starts signalling your brain, "Yo, gettin' some good stuff here. Should be done shortly." You'll find the need for "Eatin' Pants" drastically diminished.
I go in fits and spurts. Sometimes a bastion of virtue, other times...hoisted by my own damn petard. A couple of weeks ago, I was treated to a delish din-din and some very fine wines. Didn't eat myself to poppin', but that wine was sure good. Super-uncontrollable good. And 4 bottles betwixt 2 people later...*sigh* I soon became aware that I wasn't conscious (hic!)...
The target? Conscious eating. All I can do is practice. I will never play "Goldberg Variations" on the piano, but I may be able to master the scales.
Lili LaLarge
I hear you. Go ahead.
We've just spotted nachos coming in on your left flank.
Roger that. I'll out-maneuver them. Banking right.
Negative! We're detecting tequila shots on fast approach!
On my right?? I don't see them!
Stay on course, Thighmaster!
Thighmaster 1 to Boflex 6, I need back-up! I...AAAARRGH!!!...Mayday! Mayday! 2 for 1 Taco Special! Repeat, 2 for 1 Taco Special!
Pull up! Pull up!
I've been hit!!
Happy Hour is a treacherous thing. The work-week has tested every molecule of patience and sanity you claim to be yours and now that it's Friday, you figure you've earned a reward. You rationalize that the energy you've expended over the last 5 days has somehow increased your metabolism and a coupla chips n' dip couldn't possibly hurt. Salsa? Why that's merely tomatoes, onions, peppers, herbs...veggies are good for you. Corn chips. Corn's a vegetable. Fried in vegetable oil. All good. Marguerita's are made from tequila which is from agave juice - a fruit! With lime! Vitamin C as far as the eye can see. And that salted rim merely replenishes the sodium you lost sweating over the Excel sheet from hell. You'll only have a handful of nachos and one marguerita. Claim your reward.
Now in my world, that "handful" isn't necessarily my hand size - picture Andre the Giant, his hands the size of Virginia hams and you get the idea. The one marguerita? Served in a fishbowl on a stem. My "reward" takes up half the table. I'll sit there with friends, yapping merrily away in my relief from surviving another week, mindlessly stuffin' and slurpin' and next thing y'know, Happy Hour turns into Happy Hours. And when I finally stand up...yow, I know I had my knees when I walked in! And why does everyone at my table have a twin? Ole...
Consciousness. Awareness. Both of these things are in woefully short supply when you are looking at food and drink as something other than what they are. They are NOT rewards! Food has been known to...wait for it...sustain life. And drinks? Well, in moderation, can enhance life. When a team wins a championship, or an actor wins an Oscar, they get a reward. Notice how it's called the Stanley Cup, not the Stanley Cupcake. You'll never hear, "And the Oscar Meyer Wiener goes to..." Food is wonderful. A full-bodied Merlot, a miracle. Give it some respect.
Teach yourself to slooooooow down. Stopping for a few freakin' seconds to give your brain and tummy time to realize Hey, that's tasty and Hey, something's going in! Shovelling food into one's maw denies your tongue the pleasure of doing its job - recognizing the tasty. An alignment of stars and a heady happenstance of chemicals has made much of the stuff from Muddah Nature undeniably yummy, so give it some time. And some reverence. Give credit to the carroty carrot, the chickeness of the chicken. Relish your relish with relish. Mind you, there is a sword, and it's double-edged: don't be (like me) enslaved by the tasty. I looooove the taste of food so much sometimes, I wanna keep on tasting it, and the only way to do that is keep on eating it (Ahhh, lasagna, we meet again!). Unless....
I slow down. Pick up fork. Stab food. Insert into hole directly below nose. Chew. A lot. Swallow. Put the fork down. Count down. 10, 9 ,8...
1.
Repeat.
One's tum will register as satisfied if you've given it the time to, well, digest the idea that it's being fed. That's when it starts signalling your brain, "Yo, gettin' some good stuff here. Should be done shortly." You'll find the need for "Eatin' Pants" drastically diminished.
I go in fits and spurts. Sometimes a bastion of virtue, other times...hoisted by my own damn petard. A couple of weeks ago, I was treated to a delish din-din and some very fine wines. Didn't eat myself to poppin', but that wine was sure good. Super-uncontrollable good. And 4 bottles betwixt 2 people later...*sigh* I soon became aware that I wasn't conscious (hic!)...
The target? Conscious eating. All I can do is practice. I will never play "Goldberg Variations" on the piano, but I may be able to master the scales.
Lili LaLarge
Monday, August 16, 2010
Mea maxima *gulp*a
BAYBEEZ!!!!!
Oh goodness me, how La Large has missed you so! Reunions of this nature require swelling orchestration, a view of scenic pastures, fairly bursting in verdant orgasm. Soft focus lens is, of course, de rigeur for this sort of occassion, but do be a love and not have the camera on me. (I'm suddenly reminded of the band "Heart" back in the 90's: Ann Wilson, the one with the voice, began putting on some non-MTV-sanctioned weight. Videos began featuring her behind rocks, buildings, ocean liners etc. to hide her, or began using that weird stretchy effect that made her otherwise normal double chin start looking like a most abnormal dewlap.) So no, keep the camera away from me if you please, because...
I have not lost a pound.
I have not gained either, but since "seeing" you, lo these many months, the hostage taking, i.e. blob vs babe, continues. Let me explain my "disappearance" and what has transpired since spring.
(ed. Maybe you should apolgize here. Y'know, for leaving folks hanging.)
(I'll get to that.)
(ed. It's only polite.)
(I will.)
(ed. Common courtesy would dictate...)
(ALRIGHT! In a minute!)
So, one day I turn on my computer and am typing away when all hell breaks loose. A worm, a vicious, nasty computer worm invades my pristine wee 'puter and it scares the hoo-ha outta me. WTF??? All security systems go ape, odd honking sounds start coming out of my speakers...I switch everything off and that's the end of that. I post a few more blogs from work, but who in the name of holy wants to stick around after hours pouring one's guts out in the same place one works? Not to mention the peek-overs with their, "Watcha doin'?"s. I found myself rapidly losing patience trying to write with the sounds of the cleaners and vacuums going on around me. I decided to get the problem fixed - take the machine to a fixit shop and have done with it.
And I didn't.
My computer stayed at home, neglected and forlorn. I got out of the habit. I stopped doing whatever good things I was doing - yoga, walking, eating right...All systems shut down, just like my Dell. It was like the worm got at me too, only I didn't make honking noises...well, not honking ones, at any rate.
Summer arrived with its promise of warm weather, warmer friends on patios, and ice-cold beer. To counteract the latter, out came the bike to commute to work, save on the more humid days when my pores unleash a cascade of sweat one can harness for electrical power (take that, Ontario Hydro!). I started taking spinning classes (cycling, not "I can make a sweater out of this!"), and I tell ya, the instructor...It's not that I want to hurt her in any way, but damn, how can spandex be LOOSE on anyone??? Her body fat is centered on her earlobes and perhaps she carries a little extra fat on her nostrils but she is...a babe. She's super nice, too. The bitch. She even complimented me on the fact that I kept up with the class. Grrrrr.....
Let's see what else...my arch nemesis, my office chair, has been replaced by another. Unfortunately, the two spoke and the new chair has my ass in a vice-grip so tight we should be dating. And, oh yes...
I'm not. The pathological singleness continues. Not a priority. DF (dear friend, if you recall from the earlier blog) airs me out from time to time - going to the theatre or opera with a handsome boyo on your arm is not a bad thing. At all.
Work is a constant stress and it is a daily struggle to find balance. But I'm getting there. It's the battle betwixt "I can do this all by myself" and "I know when to ask for help" that hangs me up sometimes. Ever get that? Somewhere down the line, I figured that I'd have to be entirely self sufficient, ENTIRELY! I remember a fellow had bought me a necklace and was going to clasp it around my neck, and I whirled on him, snatched the necklace and snapped, "I'll do it!" I believe his words were, "Settle down there, Simba." Is it a real sense of independance? Or is it just ego? I can't for certain say, but I do know one thing, this weight thing ain't gonna happen with just me alone so...
(ed. This would be a good time to apologize because you want something.)
(Well, no, actually, I was just going to say I was going to use specific meal and excercise plans and share my findings with the readers.)
(ed. Oh. So you're not aplogizing.)
(Lookit, Emily Post, I'll get to it. Chill.)
(ed. (indistinct mutterings))
(What did you say?!)
(ed. Nothing. La-la-la...)
Prevention Magazine. The Zone. My local indoor pool. My hiking club. My market. Yup, these will be my co-conspirators in this quest, Part Deux. Got the walking plan, fancy interval-timing watch, a swimsuit that doesn't make me look like an Oktober Fest bratwurst...all the bells and whistles. And my blog! My beautiful, holding-on-by-my-cuticles blog! And you! You're back. And I'm so grateful and happy to see you. And I'm sorry I let you go...I'm sorry I let me go, but I'm not gonna beat my pia mater over it. I'm going to try and be as lucid and together as I can, and when I fall apart, well I hope y'all will be here to offer a little support. You don't have to put me back together ("I can do it!"), but any tricks and/or treats would be most welcome. To be shared by all. Blobs and babes alike.
Welcome back.
Lili La Large
(Y'see, I apologized.)
(ed. You could have offered them coupons or something...)
(Ohfertheloveof...!!)
Oh goodness me, how La Large has missed you so! Reunions of this nature require swelling orchestration, a view of scenic pastures, fairly bursting in verdant orgasm. Soft focus lens is, of course, de rigeur for this sort of occassion, but do be a love and not have the camera on me. (I'm suddenly reminded of the band "Heart" back in the 90's: Ann Wilson, the one with the voice, began putting on some non-MTV-sanctioned weight. Videos began featuring her behind rocks, buildings, ocean liners etc. to hide her, or began using that weird stretchy effect that made her otherwise normal double chin start looking like a most abnormal dewlap.) So no, keep the camera away from me if you please, because...
I have not lost a pound.
I have not gained either, but since "seeing" you, lo these many months, the hostage taking, i.e. blob vs babe, continues. Let me explain my "disappearance" and what has transpired since spring.
(ed. Maybe you should apolgize here. Y'know, for leaving folks hanging.)
(I'll get to that.)
(ed. It's only polite.)
(I will.)
(ed. Common courtesy would dictate...)
(ALRIGHT! In a minute!)
So, one day I turn on my computer and am typing away when all hell breaks loose. A worm, a vicious, nasty computer worm invades my pristine wee 'puter and it scares the hoo-ha outta me. WTF??? All security systems go ape, odd honking sounds start coming out of my speakers...I switch everything off and that's the end of that. I post a few more blogs from work, but who in the name of holy wants to stick around after hours pouring one's guts out in the same place one works? Not to mention the peek-overs with their, "Watcha doin'?"s. I found myself rapidly losing patience trying to write with the sounds of the cleaners and vacuums going on around me. I decided to get the problem fixed - take the machine to a fixit shop and have done with it.
And I didn't.
My computer stayed at home, neglected and forlorn. I got out of the habit. I stopped doing whatever good things I was doing - yoga, walking, eating right...All systems shut down, just like my Dell. It was like the worm got at me too, only I didn't make honking noises...well, not honking ones, at any rate.
Summer arrived with its promise of warm weather, warmer friends on patios, and ice-cold beer. To counteract the latter, out came the bike to commute to work, save on the more humid days when my pores unleash a cascade of sweat one can harness for electrical power (take that, Ontario Hydro!). I started taking spinning classes (cycling, not "I can make a sweater out of this!"), and I tell ya, the instructor...It's not that I want to hurt her in any way, but damn, how can spandex be LOOSE on anyone??? Her body fat is centered on her earlobes and perhaps she carries a little extra fat on her nostrils but she is...a babe. She's super nice, too. The bitch. She even complimented me on the fact that I kept up with the class. Grrrrr.....
Let's see what else...my arch nemesis, my office chair, has been replaced by another. Unfortunately, the two spoke and the new chair has my ass in a vice-grip so tight we should be dating. And, oh yes...
I'm not. The pathological singleness continues. Not a priority. DF (dear friend, if you recall from the earlier blog) airs me out from time to time - going to the theatre or opera with a handsome boyo on your arm is not a bad thing. At all.
Work is a constant stress and it is a daily struggle to find balance. But I'm getting there. It's the battle betwixt "I can do this all by myself" and "I know when to ask for help" that hangs me up sometimes. Ever get that? Somewhere down the line, I figured that I'd have to be entirely self sufficient, ENTIRELY! I remember a fellow had bought me a necklace and was going to clasp it around my neck, and I whirled on him, snatched the necklace and snapped, "I'll do it!" I believe his words were, "Settle down there, Simba." Is it a real sense of independance? Or is it just ego? I can't for certain say, but I do know one thing, this weight thing ain't gonna happen with just me alone so...
(ed. This would be a good time to apologize because you want something.)
(Well, no, actually, I was just going to say I was going to use specific meal and excercise plans and share my findings with the readers.)
(ed. Oh. So you're not aplogizing.)
(Lookit, Emily Post, I'll get to it. Chill.)
(ed. (indistinct mutterings))
(What did you say?!)
(ed. Nothing. La-la-la...)
Prevention Magazine. The Zone. My local indoor pool. My hiking club. My market. Yup, these will be my co-conspirators in this quest, Part Deux. Got the walking plan, fancy interval-timing watch, a swimsuit that doesn't make me look like an Oktober Fest bratwurst...all the bells and whistles. And my blog! My beautiful, holding-on-by-my-cuticles blog! And you! You're back. And I'm so grateful and happy to see you. And I'm sorry I let you go...I'm sorry I let me go, but I'm not gonna beat my pia mater over it. I'm going to try and be as lucid and together as I can, and when I fall apart, well I hope y'all will be here to offer a little support. You don't have to put me back together ("I can do it!"), but any tricks and/or treats would be most welcome. To be shared by all. Blobs and babes alike.
Welcome back.
Lili La Large
(Y'see, I apologized.)
(ed. You could have offered them coupons or something...)
(Ohfertheloveof...!!)
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