As is so often the case when folks start getting serious in a relationship, priorities shift. Running, for example; becomes less important than going out for a romantic, artery clogging, delicious and fatty dinner with your new oily bo-hunk. Saturday morning hikes at your favorite secret spot in the forest take a back seat to the couch, homemade waffles with bacon dragged through syrup and cheese grits. Two years later you find yourself buying new pants and scratching your head because wasn’t it just yesterday you were a size 2 and could run into the house from school and eat the other half of that German Chocolate cake for a snack that you made the night before? Nothing happened. No poundage accrual. No extra miles to be counted on the bike or the feet or reps in the gym. You played and lived and that was that.

But it wasn’t yesterday, it was 20 years ago and what was once your body is turning into your mommas body. My body is not my own. I’m baffled by what I see when I look in the mirror and curse the inevitable metabolic slow down. Gray hair is one thing, a muffin top is quite another. No less natural, but considerably more offensive.

Knowing full well that my relationship happiness killed my motivation and that it would take the likes of a personal trainer or plastic surgery I can’t afford to help me get my ass back in shape, I did the next best thing: I signed up for a damn boot camp.

This should be interesting.

Starting October 2 (after a week of preparatory homework assignments), it includes a few painful reality checks including:
* Pre/Post Body Fat Percentage testing
* Pre/Post Weight analysis
* Pre/Post Biometric measurements
* Pre/Post Physical Fitness Test

If I don’t throw up or pass out the first day, I’ll consider it a success. If I drop some pounds and/or inches, I’ll consider it an effing miracle and write a letter to the Pope about having these people initiated into Sainthood.

Friday night I had salad for dinner. Saturday morning I got up early and dragged The Mc to a hot yoga session (God love him, that poor boy). I made fruit salad and some healthy(ish) eggs for breakfast with oatmeal bread. The crazy psuedo healthy behavior continued until last night.

Home from 6 hours of work/on my feet, I plopped down on the couch, flipped between the Grammy’sOscars and Law & Order, and shoved my face full of chips slathered in a Velveeta & salsa concoction.

So lethal and so damn tasty.

Operation Drop the Happy Pounds starts over this morning with a damn smoothie and the gym at lunch.

Grumble grumble.

Sometimes I like being lied to.

The Mc has been troubled recently by a woman at the office who cleans her breast pump in the kitchen - between the coffee pot and the microwave.

When I say troubled I mean he’s disturbed by it to a point where I’m giggling silently while watching American Idol and letting him drift off in a cold medicine induced slumber a few nights ago and he wakes up in a start to ask “do you think those women should wash their pumps in the kitchen?” because the number has now grown to 3. Troubled.

No, I don’t. I think they should wash them in the bathroom where all the other body-part-bacteria lives. Seriously. People wash FOOD in that sink.

So you there, what do you think? And more importantly - what would you do about it?

Benign? Only the lab knows for sure…dundunDUN!

I’m sure it’s nothing, and that’ll be confirmed in a week or so. Wheeee.