What is worse than falling off the wagon?--Getting back on it.

Someone washed all my gym wears in hot water, because either the clothes got smaller or my arse got bigger.

Who would have thought this body made it through a marathon a little over a year ago. I'm fluffy. Pasty white is not the best color of fat either.

I am expecting a Dear John letter from the Swedish bikini team any day now.

I read somewhere that it's difficult to gain weight on a vegetarian diet. I can't tell you the publication's name, because I ate it.

So here I am at the gym in my fat-spandex-pants. What an oxymoron.
I zip my hood up and keep my shades on just a little longer in hopes that the staff at Lifetime Fitness are suffering from amnesia and don't remember me. Crap. The front desk attendant makes visual contact.

"Karin! Where have you been? I haven't seen you in, like, forever!"

We air-kiss and OMG. I can't fake my recent absence. Any staff member at the gym knows how long I've been M.I.A. just by swiping my membership card.
But their cheery mood suddenly instill guilt. Why? Because I have blown them off for a few months? Is it the texts and emails from my gym pals betting reasons why I went missing that's got my conscience? I was especially humored by the theory of having been abducted. Can I blame my floppy body on alien experiments?
Nah, I just lost my mojo. It's as simple as that. Everything else is just an excuse.

It takes me fifteen minutes to make it to the locker and up to the exercise floor with all the long-lost, much-fitter-than-me-friends that vigorously greet me. I am shocked they all recognize me with my new friend--the ginormous butt.

I am almost to my class when I see her--the personal trainer.
I try to look short. And brunette. It's not working.

"Karin!" she yells with that kind, gleaming white smile that I usually love. "I have not seen you forever. What have you been doing? Have you been working out?"

So many questions, such little time. I cut to the chase. I don't waste my time fibbing to personal trainers. They read minds.

"Uhm," I begin. It's a strong and convincing start. "I've been busy sitting home, getting fat."

I consider telling her my fingers are both limber and strong from continuous typing and tipping my coffee cup back all day long. I decide not to.

Personal trainer girl flips her curly hair back and laughs. Did she think I was joking? Maybe it's the honesty she's not used to.

I join the rest of the ladies in the weight training class. I had considered running on the treadmill, but the thought of sucking wind like a chain smoker had gotten the better of me.

"Colleen! It's so good to see you," the instructor shouts while waving. I never correct her when she gets my name wrong. Today I may want to be Colleen. Do Colleen's triceps stop flapping when her arms stop moving? Mine make me look like a flying squirrel as I wave back to the instructor.

The class begins with peppy music.

I long for my cushy office chair, my fuzzy slippers, and a nice cup of java.

"I am the biggest loser, I am the biggest loser," I quietly chant to motivate myself. It's not working.
I'm about to lose something--either my breakfast or my bladder control--not sure which one.

Note to self:
Don't eat oatmeal before you pop a squat with a loaded iron-grip bar.
I muster all the self control I have not to hurl chunks on the aerobics floor.

It's finally time for cool down and stretching. A bunch of ladies pack up their props and leave. Fools. Cool down is the best part of the whole thing. It's like dessert after roughage.

Personally I plan a two hour nap as a reward for this one hour exercise stint.

And maybe some blogging and a tumbler of hot, steaming coffee.