Yeah, I have some work to do

One of my resolutions this year was to reduce my assprint, in other words to shape up a bit. Drop a few pounds and try to get my body back to where it once was. Upon an honest inspection of the current state of my body, I was shocked to see how sad and well, floppy, it all has become. My ass is wide enough to tattoo, to scale, a very good likeness of Mt. Rushmore. My breasts, once small and pert, seem to want to point at my footwear. Now, I know my shoes are cute, but I really don't need my breasts emphasizing this by continually indicating toward my stylish accessories. In general, my form is softer and "cottage cheesey" than I'd like it to be, so I decided to take action before I started to seriously consider a burka as a viable clothing option.

So far, I've hit a few road bumps. For example, I really like food. I do, I enjoy cooking it and eating it. I'm trying to keep it all healthy goodness, but really, I like things made with real butter. Oh, and cheese. I love that stuff, the richer, creamier more gourmet, the better. So that's one obstacle. I'm working on it, but it is a rough road when I have to get really excited about eating the more restrained diets of those who don't really LOVE food. Don't get me wrong, I'm a good cook and I know how to make the healthy stuff really tasty. The bigger problem is that I just really long for the other good stuff I know I can make that is less good for me. *sigh*
On the other hand, I did make a real effort to go back to the gym. I even signed up with a personal trainer to help get my routine to "hurt" a bit more. That's all going fine. Well, when I actually make it to the gym. I call her a "devil woman" and joke that she hates me, but that isn't really true. She's one of those tiny perky people who bounces around the gym in her tight little body telling you how to make that squat work your quads even better. Apart from the perky thing, she puts up with my wicked sense of humor, my self-deprecating jokes and my snickering at the gym obsessed types working out nearby. I don't actually mind doing the work out. I'll never be an avid gym type, simply because I hate the whole gym thing. The workout itself isn't the problem for me, I'll gladly squat and crunch and lift and step up the cardio. It is the rest of it that I loathe. What I hate is going to the gym. I hate the drive there, I hate changing into workout clothes, sweating, hell, I hate sweating, then showering afterwards. I hate spending any tiny portion of my "personal" time fighting a machine while being forced to watch my ungainly battle in the wall of mirrors opposite the flock of fitness contraptions along with a crowd of similarly occupied work out drones. It is like watching some idiotic army of not terribly lethal cardio warriors, it depresses me. And I especially hate the wiping down process as though I am so sweaty and foul that I have to remove all traces of myself from the equipment. Yet I do it religiously, and sincerely resent anyone who does not.

I'm still just barely seeing results, but something is happening. Mostly, I'm sore and cranky, but my pants are a bit looser too, so it balances out. Well for me, not for my family really, but they'll just have to cope.

At some point it will all pay off, or that is what I keep telling myself. But honestly, I keep hoping that some supernatural imp will appear and offer to give me the body of my dreams for the cost of my eternal soul. Well, maybe not my eternal soul. Maybe we could work out some compromise where I get an imperfect but passable body, but for some more reasonable price, like the loss of my little toes and half of my index finger or something. Better yet,I dream that scientists will finally discover a way to harness the calorie burning power of watching Law and Order reruns and release me from the bondage that is my "healthy lifestyle". I mean, if scientist can't do that, really, what use are they?