but weight, there’s more

I have been wearing dark colors. I move slowly. I politely acknowledge people around me with a soft, demure nod. I put on a pair of dark grey J.Crew slacks today. I am mourning the loss of my former skinny self. She wandered into the fatty, lazy, depths that are my current pudgy self. I’m dabbing a tear with a Kleenex.

I eat too much! And I exercise too little. It’s no wonder that I’m what the Centers for Disease Control calls “overweight.” I measured my body mass index with their online calculator and I am 0.1 points/ pounds/ hairs/ whatever into the overweight category. I scored 25.1 and the range for normal is 18.5 to 25.0. To rub shoulders with the lower end of normal for my height, I would have to be 122 lbs. I haven’t been 122 lbs. since I was ten.

Last night, I called the gym to which I belong but have never visited. I am getting over the fact that I need to drive 2.2 miles to get there. I used to refuse driving to work out. I would much prefer to just put on my medicinal Shox and run out the door and around the block. However, my neighborhood is, at best, dimly lit. Not safe for a stunning, running fatty like myself. The errant lust that enshrouds me is an aphrodisiac only enhanced by my profuse sweating during a jog. Homeless men and wandering bar patrons would be defenseless. And of course, I’d be easy to subdue because I’d be out of breath and extremely tired. Maybe I’d be slippery enough to wriggle free due to the sweat. But like I said, I’d probably be too exhausted.

Anyway, so I called the gym to ask them two very important questions.

1) Do they have a pool? I love to swim.
1b) Is it saltwater or chlorine? I hate smelling like chlorine.
2) Do they have an indoor track? I like to read (and run) between the lines.

The conversation went something like this:

Voice: Gym, where can I direct your call?
Me: Hi, I just had a couple of questions about your facilities.
Disinterested Voice: (couldn’t care less, probably even slightly annoyed) Ok.
Me: Do you guys have an indoor track?
DV: Nope.
Me: So, you only have treadmills?
DV: Yup.
Me: And is your pool chlorine or salt?
DV: (condescending) Uh, chlorine.
Me: Ok, thanks.
DV: (silence, the sound of people in the background)
Me: That’s all. Thanks.
DV: (hangs up)

I think my only revenge is going to said gym, seeking out the lackadaisical part-time high school dipshit who answers the phone, then working out so diligently that I become hot like a Maxim cover girl and can flaunt it as I strut around their chlorine pool. In high heels.

First, the wake. The metaphorical wake and then the waking of my consciousness to the reality. I need to change. I am wandering around my apartment with my belly hanging out, lamenting the fact that I have chocolate in my fridge that I am not going to eat and that the dark grey J.Crew slacks I wore today were bought on sale three or four years ago because they were a great bargain even though they were two sizes too big. Now they’re tight. That’s why I’m sad. But instead of buying flowers, I’m going to get a scale. And instead of serving hors d’oeuvres, I’m getting served like street break dancing style. Yo, you wanna battle, heifer? Hell yeah I do. Instead of cardboard, I’ll be bustin’ on the yoga mat. I can’t imagine what 122 lbs. would look like on my bones. I’m afraid my boobs will shrink and I will look ten again. But this is for my health. This is for my body as a machine, not a clothes hanger. We gather today to bid a fond farewell to Katie’s bad habits. Hasta la vista low self-esteem. Hello to me and achieving a goal and to weight being lifted off more than just my shoulders.