Which brings me to the conspiracy surrounding my attempts to get fit enough to be happy about wearing a regular old cover-your-ass bathing suit now. We are going to Hawaii for our tenth anniversary and I would like to look like I did ten years ago. Since that ship has sailed, I would at least like to feel reasonably sane in a two piece. That doesn’t seem like much to ask, does it?

So then explain why are there troops of cookie pushers at the grocery store when I go. And if I attempt to exercise some discipline by declining their offers of Samoas and Thin Mints,  the mothers of said cookie dealers shoot me evil disparaging looks. Really, I don’t see you buying all little Ashley’s cookies so she and her troop can go to Six Flags. Yeah, don’t look at me that way. You won’t keep this crack in your house either.

And then Starbucks has to turn on me too. They had plenty of snacks that I had already made peace with, but now they introduce candy coated cake on a stick. And like any good drug dealer the first one was free. I need my coffee people, but tiny salted caramel brownies? Little whoopie pies?  That is just unkind.

Lastly, apparently we as a society have developed a need for cupcakes so extreme that they have employed trucks to drive around the city hawking them. Can’t make it to the bakery on your lunch hour, slim? No worries, we will bring the frosted fat pills to you. You will recognize us in our cute pink truck with the line of ladies outside (the guys are all over at the meatball truck).

So far I have dodged most of these bullets, but I am only human. How is a gal supposed to slim down after a long winter of bulking up against the cold when everywhere she looks are sweets that call her name? The good news is there is considerably more fabric involved in any bathing suit that I am likely to wear on our upcoming vacation. And thankfully for anyone who happens to be at the pool where I will be, my sad not-thong-worthy bottom will be completely covered.

I have seen physical therapy on television. It involves grueling work to regain some lost motion or activity. There are tears of pain and gritted teeth. Patients with paralysis walk with their hands on parallel bars shuffling their legs along in the hopes of regaining the power to walk. They struggle and sweat, neither of which are enjoyable. Even the name of the company she referred was unappealing: Athletico. This is clearly a company that services athletes, which I am not. I am a relatively sedentary, reluctant exerciser. I am motivated by vanity not competition.

So I tabled the prescription for this physical therapy nonsense and went along my way, my soon to be hump-backed way. A few months ago I began to wake in the middle of the night unable to roll over because of pain. Still I persevered (probably not the right word for stubbornly refusing to seek help). Eventually I began to have muscle spasms in my shoulders and neck and I had to throw in the towel. I went back to the doctor, this time secure in my self-diagnosis of back cancer. No WebMD needed, it was all very clear to me.

My doctor did prescribe muscle relaxers this time, possibly because my upper back muscles had begun to resemble oak or maple to the touch. She also renewed my prescription for, say it with me, physical therapy. Bitch. I took the muscle relaxers and honestly they helped a bit but were no where near as much fun as I had hoped. (Side note: I may or may not have been looking for a martini in pill form which is strange because I don’t think vodka really helps with back pain.) After I had taken all the muscle relaxers (as prescribed) and my back had refused to comply, I had to admit defeat and make an appointment to begin therapy of the physical nature.

Um, why did no one tell me how awesome physical therapy is? Seriously, I would have done this a long time ago if I had known. I don’t know how it is for other ailments, but for my particular issue – I have to have a strong handed young man give me a massage. Sure there is no aromatherapy or Yanni music, but who cares? I am receiving an insurance subsidized back rub. Then, the physical therapist does a little adjusting of my spine, not in a jerking chiropractic way. He gently moves my spine this way and that way to loosen the ligaments that are in a chokehold on my vertebrae. It pretty much all feels awesome, even the parts that hurt. There is a little exercise component to the therapy. I have to stretch which requires very little coordination and do a couple strengthening exercises, but no gritting of teeth, no sweating. And did I mention the massage. I am converted.

I realize that other types of injuries may require more vigorous therapy. I have seen others who have been doing some unpleasant looking exercises, but they all appear to be pretty athletic. As a non-athlete, however, the chances of me sustaining any of those injuries is pretty slim. Even I can’t hurt myself on an elliptical trainer. I have five more weeks of back rubs, I mean therapy and the physical therapist told me that I would probably benefit long term from regular massage therapy. I may love that guy.

It is one thing when I fail to maintain my own weight through diet and exercise. At 5’ 10”, I can carry an extra ten pounds with little more than a strained waistline (and an occasional flying button). Goose, on the other hand, is officially fat. Since his last visit to the vet he has gained 9 pounds. He is 61 pounds. I can’t feel his ribs. His fur coat is looking a little tight. I don’t know how this happened. He doesn’t get all sorts of treats, just a cookie here and a bit of lamb trachea (larynx?) there.  We only feed him one cup of dry food twice a day. I am beside myself. I have a child that could be considered obese. Do dogs have a BMI?

So, now what? I have to reduce his food by one third. Great, that won’t feel like deprivation. I suppose more exercise is in order too. I have seen doggie treadmills in the catalogs that clog my mailbox. What do you think it would take to get Bob Harper to go all “Biggest Doggie Loser” on Goose’s ass? Does Jenny Craig have a canine program, because damn that Sarah Rue looks awesome? My husband, Bob, even had me ask the vet if it could be a thyroid disorder (too much Oprah?). It wasn’t.

We have to guard Goose’s feelings. I don’t want to do anything that might damage his self-esteem or cause an eating disorder. What might that look like? Milk bone wrappers hidden in the couch and Beggin’ Strips boxes strewn about. And the purging, well I can’t begin to imagine. Lets not even get into the cost of therapy.

I have never had a chubby pooch before.

Larry was tall and skinny.

Mike is svelte and athletic.

In their old age our Golden Retrievers, Casey and Lucas, had some weight issues, but Goose is not even two.

Somehow Goose has moved into the portly zone without our notice – it happens, right? No need to panic and start inquiring about doggie gastric bypass yet. We’ll just begin the eat less, move more program and by we, I mean both Goose and I. Who knows, maybe in my efforts to whip him back into shape I’ll find inspiration. I can still feel my ribs, but my equivalent of his”fur coat” is a little tight these days too.

Recently Bob entered into a fledgling bro-mance with a guy from the health club. We’ll call him “health club guy”. They struck up a conversation in the locker room (please.. in towels) and made plans to play racquetball. Bob had been wanting to start playing racquetball as part of his midlife-crisis-health-fitness plan in addition to swimming and running. And as luck would have it, health club guy was looking for someone to play with.

One perfunctory trip to Dick’s Sporting Goods for the necessary equipment: glove, goggles and a new racquet (he had two perfectly viable racquets, but claimed they were unacceptable due to their advanced age – new technology in racquets and all) and Bob was off to his play date. Maybe it was the new racquet, but Bob and health club guy were a bit mismatched. Apparently the midlife-crisis-health-fitness program had been such a success that Bob kind of whooped his new buddy’s butt.

Undiscouraged health club guy invited Bob to play again. Bob agreed. To me Bob waffled: he had a busy week; it wasn’t much of a workout; health club guy wasn’t that good; the chosen day wouldn’t work, blah, blah, blah. He phoned health club guy to bow out and I listened as he almost broke their date. When he got off the phone they still had tentative plans to play again.

“What the hell was that?” I asked “Why didn’t you just cancel?”

“I told him I wasn’t sure if I could make it.” Bob defended

“But you don’t want to play.”

“I know, but he sounded sad” Bob said finally.

First of all – really? A grown man (who Bob barely knows) sounded sad that he might not get his ass kicked at racquetball again?

If I am to accept that, them why would Bob lead the poor guy on? Bob knows this bro-mance isn’t going anywhere and yet he won’t cut him loose? He doesn’t want to be the bad guy. If Bob were honest with him, health club guy would more than likely recover and get back to trolling the locker room for a new less fit racquetball partner. That would be the right thing to do.

I can only hope after all this time that any women Bob almost broke up with when he met me aren’t still waiting for him to call.

I cleaned out my closet of all the pants that no longer fit, because they were taking up valuable closet space and mocking me. They were all hanging around gloating that they weren’t being worn and had no dog hair on them. And then they would scream at the seams when I tried to put them on. I did, however, leave one ill fitting pair of jeans behind. I think it was because they used to be my “fat” pants and were loose on me only a year ago. But in leaving them in the closet, I mistook them for the jeans that actually do fit me the other night. It was disturbing to see the outlines of the pockets so clearly and they were really uncomfortable. It wasn’t until I looked at the tag that I realized I hadn’t gained ten pounds in one day. I continued to wear them all night as motivation but really out of laziness.

Last summer I was in a different weight class. In a haze of high self esteem I planned to have a whole stack of slacks that were too big, altered. Procrastination being my middle name, I never actually got around to finding a tailor or dropping them off. In this case, and potentially only in this case, procrastination was my friend. If not for those pants I would have a really limited work wardrobe right now.

One can’t start a new exercise regimen on a weekend (it has been documented, look it up) so I will start on Monday. I am putting it out there so I can’t back out. Hamster flu or not – Monday is the day, no excuses. I am sure to feel motivated after Mother’s Day brunch and bathing suit season is fast approaching. If those aren’t motivating factors then my impending Alaskan cruise should be. My last Alaskan cruise involved a Danish binge that left my thighs chafed.

Sunday in a most unusual method of seduction, Bob let me know that my high school boyfriend was on television. He  thought I might want to check him out (it’s a sports thing or Bob would have no idea who this guy is). It is strange enough to see current pictures of high school friends that I have fond memories of on Facebook. It is down right creepy to see my prom date on live TV. It made me wonder for the zillionth time why he was my boyfriend at all. He was cruel as it turned out, but odd at best when we were dating. I knew very little about his family except that he hated his sister and not in a sibling rivalry way (red flag?).  The only thing that we had in common was proximity, but it would never have occurred to me that I might go without a boyfriend in high school. I thought he was safe and not unattractive so I went for it. The fact that my approach to high school dating was not unlike that of a prison inmate’s method of choosing a companion is just a disturbing bonus revelation. As for Bob, he does very well when compared to the men of my past especially the high school variety, so while unusual his method was not unsuccessful.

In other news my chin appears to be pregnant. I am not sure how far along it is, but it is definitely showing. How do you decorate a nursery for a baby chin and more importantly WHY IS MY CHIN GROWING ANOTHER CHIN?

Lest my vanity get too far out of control, my New Year’s Intention to get in better shape has so far resulted in a five-pound weight gain. I would like to tell myself the fairy tale of “The Muscle who weighed more than The Fat”, but I think it may have more to do with the 26 large bags of peanut butter M & Ms that have found their way into my hands since the first of the year. Hey, maybe there is a relationship between the M & Ms and my pregnant chin.

Lastly ever since the economy began to suck the disposable out of my income I have been cutting back on the salon visits. I haven’t colored my hair in about two inches of gray. I have been debating whether or not going full on salt and pepper would make me look older than I am. I am almost convinced that the gray looks like highlights, that is if anyone intentionally highlighted their hair with gray.

So the hat trick that is my self esteem today: I am a chubby, graying babe with nice case of adult onset acne. The upside: I am pretty sure I could still get laid in high school or prison.

Here is my problem: I have begun to see people at my health club wheeling their gym bags in. This seems oxymoronic or at least moronic. First of all what is in your gym bag that makes it so difficult to lift? Secondly are you staying the weekend? And lastly if you are not inclined to carry your gym bag to and from the health club, you should probably sign up with a personal trainer because you, my lazy ass friend, are not likely to have what it takes to actually get yourself in shape.

So, after class I was in the locker room when I overheard a conversation, one side of which went something like this:

“Hey Carla, how are you?  Have you been doing abs, ’cause your abs look great. Don’t you love the way it feels.  I mean, I don’t do it out of vanity.”

To which Carla and I both snorted with laughter and responded “Uh, I do”. (I know that no one was speaking to me. I’m kind of a Gladys Kravitz. Besides everyone knows there are no private conversations in the locker room. Its totally an unwritten rule.) Then I overheard “Jillian Michaels” say something about how that was the reason she was great at triathlons. Oh, I see where our differences lie. I am not even a mono-athlete. There is nothing about me that would make me great at triathlons and I only do ab work so I can look good in a bathing suit. She probably really enjoys running. I want to be healthy and fit, but if it weren’t for vanity I wouldn’t care what form it took.

Pilates is the first and only form of exercise that I can honestly say that I enjoy. It may be because so much of it is done lying down. Yoga is too, but for some reason it’s too slow. I hate to run, but with the appropriate play list (Beastie Boys and hip hop) I can make it through 30 minutes or so on the elliptical. I might be tempted to try spinning if the people in the class didn’t dress as if they were gearing up for the Tour de France.  I can’t even begin to contemplate aerobics or any other coordination-oriented-dance-like exercise. I have no coordination – it was removed at birth with the umbilical cord.

But the really terrifying class is the class that sometimes meets right before Pilates. I don’t know what its called but think worst gym class ever. I am sure its a great workout.  Everyone leaves really sweaty and looking spiritually broken. I actually feel a little nauseous when I have to wait and watch their wind sprints. I have flashbacks of training bras, polyester shorts and cold community showers and, and, and accck.  I need to go into Child’s Pose for a minute. There, much better.