I live on floor seventeen and if we have a fire alarm, we are to walk to the first floor and we are not to use the elevator. When I moved into this condo building six years ago, it was a new structure and we had numerous false alarms set in motion by construction dust. One trip down those stairs and back up made me swear to never use a StepMaster machine. That said, a guy on my floor runs up and down all seventeen flights, just to keep in shape. Yes, he is certainly in shape.
Anyway, my sedentary life here, plus my no smoking policy (clean for a year and a half!) has piled on the pounds. It now seems an effort just to run my vacuum. Without revealing my astounding poundage, let’s just say I’m bigger than a breadbox and smaller than an elephant, but not by much.
In desperation, I have entered the land of the big diet in tandem with the big exercise routine. I started out today by riding the elevator to the first floor and strolling through the exercise room, splendid in it’s shiny solitude. Not one sweaty body was working out. I picked up a 2 lb. weight and put it back on the rack. Odd, I noticed that there aren’t any weigh-in scales in the room. Not that it matters because I refuse to exercise in public which is what exercising in that room is. Sweatin’ with the oldies (and a few youngies) isn’t for me. The last time I participated in such madness was when Fair Lady opened in Brookfield in the 70s. There I was clad in a two piece Lycra thing, with Lycra leotards, stretched out with the rest of the ladies who were perpetually trying to resemble a James Bond Girl. This was in the Oprah days of her powdered diet stuff. I lost thirty on that but went bonkers when three months later I was allowed to eat a chicken breast. The pounds slowly gained control over me and I stayed round and firm and fully packed until four years ago when I spent a year having my mouth rebuilt with an intricate network of bridges, crowns, etc. Yogurt was all I could eat. I lost significant weight and with my new smile, at the end of the year I was glorious.
My current diet is going fine and I’m in to week three. Discouraging that I’ve only lost three lbs., with only thirty more to go, but I did buy a bathroom scale. It works with my décor…all postmodern and sleek. It resembles a sculpture. I don’t, unless it’s the Venus of Fat City, circa 2010. The good news is my sleek friend down the hall says she has “at least fifty diverse workout DVD’s,” and she says I may borrow them. This saves me from waiting to buy Jane Fonda’s newest form of torture. Gee, Jane looks great all lifted, shifted and rich.
Tonight I eat 2 ozs. of chicken, a portion somewhat resembling the size of a newborn’s fist. Add to that I get to add a few round green spouts and I’m good to go.
In my closet hang racks of slacks, beautiful slender slacks. But I’m not in them. Not yet anyway. What I really need is a pair of long legs, but then again my dad always told me I could never play center on the girls’ basketball team because my legs were too short.
Dang it all. Happy New Year.
