A wonderful mess is made with chocolate

I’m no longer a drinking woman, but I sure could have used a stiff Marguerita before I went shopping for a gym suit a couple of weeks ago.
The last time I had my carcass in one of those contraptions was in 1974 when I was 14 years old and in phys. ed. class in Grade 9. It was a blue zip-up thing that left my hairy armpits and legs exposed.
As a teenager, I hated gym class for all sorts of reasons and the gym suit just added a whole level of disaster to the experience.
Some 37 years later, you’d think I’d have my gym suit issues worked out, right? Obviously not.
Denial is not a river in Africa.
I joined the gym in recent weeks because my Body Mass Index of 31.7 (I’d round it off to 32 but that would be stupid) was crying “Uncle.” My bra contents no longer could slide in like a warm hug and it was a juggling match every morning pushing the bottom of my butt fat back into my underwear.
Oh, Lordy.
I needed to get back to the world of exercise in the same big way that Steven King purports I come to the writing table—any way but lightly.
So off I went to the local department store for the darkest fat-camouflage gym gear I could find. I chose carefully a two-piece black number that would cover everything from ankle to elbow and slinked into the change room to try it on, wishing I could knock back a Marguerita before I looked in the mirror at myself.
However, I was pleasantly surprised when I peaked through squinted eye to see that the camouflage gear was living up to its name. Praise be to Lycra!
But I still needed to get to the gym to make this equation work. I packed a gym bag and drove from my house in the direction of the gym, all the while thinking of a hundred excuses why I really didn’t have to go at all.
In fact, I drove past the gym twice just to see how many cars were parked there before I drew up enough courage to pull in.
I so wanted a second Marguerita before I stepped on to the gym floor in my gym suit.
For all the belief I have in myself (and I do believe in me), all it took was the threat of exposing myself in a head-to-toe gym suit to put me at the back of the line in self-esteem. How crazy is that?
I managed to make it across the co-ed gym floor without looking up and bolted upstairs to the women-only section like I was being chased by Michael Myers from the “Hallowe’en” movies. No word of a lie.
But I made it and when I got on that treadmill, almost immediately I was fired with adrenaline. As I quickened the pace and the sweat began to pour off my face, taking with it all my mascara, I couldn’t help but believe I was a force to be reckoned with—a workout heroine!
My 35-pound weight loss goal (okay, 40 pounds) had begun.
Day One was in the bag. But then I went to my workplace, souped up on myself, opened the little drawer at the coffee station to fetch a piece of gum, and discovered an opened bag of “Lindor” truffles staring back at me from their perfectly round and beautiful foiled wrappings.
I poked five of them in my mouth. Oh, Lordy, the error of my ways.
Balance? Sometimes I do it well; sometimes I do it appallingly.
But nonetheless, I’ll be the first to admit—I am a wonderful mess (with emphasis on the wonderful).

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