Rewarding Myself?

15.2 pounds!!!

I'm very excited. Weeks ago, I told a friend that when I hit 15 pounds, I was going to eat whatever I wanted.

Now that I'm there, I don't want to--which is a good thing.

But now I'm stumped as to how I should reward myself. I've gotten some good suggestions on Facebook, but my favorite came from a friend who said I should buy some sexy underwear. I love that idea. I think I might go spend a small fortune at Lane Bryant on some underwear and a matching bra...mine are starting to gap. Maybe I won't be Gigantic for too much longer.

25 pounds is new running shoes. I love shoes...I can't wait!

Tears in my Turbo

I have had a busy weekend.

Friday night, I went scrapbooking with some girlfriends. While there, we met the craziest ladies ever and had a great time. Didn't get home until around two in the morning, crawled into bed and passed out.

Saturday, I got up around nine (Seven hours of sleep...not too bad) and got ready for Turbo Kick. Seriously, there were at least 80 people in the studio. I kicked the woman in front of me--not on purpose, of course. She was back kicking and I was front kicking (which we were supposed to be doing, thank God) and our feet collided. Sorry I kicked you! We had to do push-ups--AGAIN. My poor arms were shaking, my abs were killing me, and I was almost crying the last ten minutes of class. I say almost because I was taking huge, deep breaths and reminding myself that if I cried, everyone would know because I am NOT a pretty crier. My nose and eyes get all red, my face gets blotchy, and I'm basically a HUGE mess. I checked out the mirror and my nose WAS red, but so was the rest of my face, so I figured I was safe. I'm blaming the endorphins released during exercise for my rush of emotions during class yesterday. I felt sad for no reason the whole way home, cried in the shower, and emerged with a raging migraine.

Awesome.

Today, I've got what I like to call a migraine hangover...it's just like a regular headache without the fun of the night before. I'm physically and emotionally exhausted from dealing with pain all day yesterday and I'd like nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep for the rest of the day. (Okay, I'd also like a hot tub or a massage...but would settle for the nap.) Of course, I'm a mom so that sleeping-all-day thing doesn't exactly work for me. Too much to do. Too little time to do it in.

Not Sure How to Handle This...

I never watched 90210. Not religiously, anyway. Yes, I knew of Dylan and Brenda and Kelly and Donna. I saw the prom dress episode. And I caught 30 seconds of a very early episode where one of the girls told Brenda she had to lose weight because she couldn't hide under baggy winter clothes anymore. She was wearing a sweatshirt at the time--not a hoodie, an honest-to-God sweatshirt. I know. Those were some crazy times.

I guess I pictured myself hiding under bulky clothes and whipping out my whole new body come this spring. (Because I am beyond serious this time.) But people are noticing already.

"Are you losing weight?" One woman in my office asked me today.

Shushing her, I looked around to see if anyone had heard. I nodded. "I'm doing Weight Watchers," I admitted. "I've lost 13 pounds."

I'm kind of embarrassed to tell her this because--like the rest of the world--she knows I've done this before. Over and over again, in fact.

She used her hands to outline my rather large oversized hourglass shape. "You look great!" She told me. This woman had gastric bypass about 4...3? years ago. (I'm terrible at timelines. I can remember stuff...just can't remember when it happened. Could have been 3 years ago...could have been yesterday. How the hell should I know?) She said she's lost 160 pounds since her surgery and she just can't imagine hauling that kind of weight around every day. I came home and picked up a 12 pound weight...It puts it in perspective, that I used to carry that much weight with me all the time.

A few hours later, another woman followed me down the hallway. "Hey," she whispered as I peeled my orange. "I just wanted to come down here and tell you that you're looking really good...I can tell your boobs are getting smaller." (It's a compliment in my book. Have you seen my boobs? Gigantic.)

The Over-Complimenter caught me today, too. "Hey, Skinny Minny. Your shirt's too big."

It's too much. All at once. I'm embarrassed to talk about it...all of these people have seen me lose weight before. They've all seen me pile it back on...lose a few pounds, gain a few more...lose more, gain it back. It's been an endless cycle. I want to look them in the eye and say, "This is IT. I'm really doing it this time, I PROMISE." They've all heard it before. But then again, so have all of you.


MizFit, I am proud of myself, thank you. Scared to death and unable to take compliments, but proud. (And I like Pink, too. I heard that song twice at work today and wanted to get up and jam...but NOT do push-ups.)

New Year, New Body

"New year, new body! Come on, people, let's MOVE!!!"

I have a love/hate relationship with Turbo Kick. MOST of the time, I love it. (I also love this new Subway commercial where people are eating fattening things and their clothes are popping open...back to Turbo Kick, though.) I hate the thought of going. I hate how out of shape I feel when I'm gasping for breath three minutes in. I hate being sore two days later. But I love the rush. The moving. The jumping. (Thanks to my new sports bra.) I HATE the push-ups.

The first time we did them, she called them something different. "Tricep push backs" or something crazy like that. When I realized what they were, I was pissed. "These are PUSH-UPS!!!" Tonight, we did push-ups. I struggled, of course, on my knees, face inches from the floor, arms trembling from trying to push up my Fat Lady body.

"New year, new body!"

Ironically, we were rocking out to Pink's So What...which was exactly what was going through my head.

So what? I'm not a rock star.
I don't have rock moves.
And I don't need to be thin.
And guess what? I'm not havin' fun.
Are we almost done?
I'm gonna fall on my face...
I'm not alright.
And I'm not fine.
And I'm a tool.
So what? I'm not a rock star...

And as I'm collapsing to the floor and shoving myself up, praying no one can hear me sobbing, I start thinking, is it worth it? I know it is. I know it is. I know it is. But it's SO HARD.
Sometimes, I think it would just be so much easier to be...a Fat Lady.

New year. New body. New me.
Keep moving.

The Over-Complimenter

Is there such a thing? In all my years of weight-gain and weight-loss, I've never really learned how to take a compliment.

In 2003, when we did South Beach for the first time, I remember my boss telling me to buy some new jeans because she was tired of watching me hitch them up all the time.

When I fell off the WW wagon a three years ago, a friend told me how disappointed she was because she'd been so proud of my weight loss.

My dad is famous for making comments...some positive, mostly negative. I didn't even tell him I'd joined WW this time...until last week when he called in the middle of my meeting and I sent him a text message that said I would call him after my meeting. Of course, the first words out of his mouth were, "What meeting?" Damn. My cover was blown. (And I GAINED last week, too, of course.)

This time, I was so nervous about it not working...so embarrassed about all my ups and downs--The world is a witness to my yo-yo--I didn't want to tell many people. I told a small handful...and the Internet. At work, I told K, of course, and confided in one other woman, in the break room while we heated up our lunches.

I love her, but she's kind of an Over-Complimenter, if there can be such a thing. I never know what to say to her. She always wants to know how I'm doing--which is great, having one more person to answer to. But she's too much. She tells me I must be "redistributing," because she thinks I look like I've lost way more than 4, 10, or13 pounds.

What do you say to the Over-Complimenter? "Thank you" seems painfully inadequate when her comments often make my day. "Oh, no I don't," seems rude since she's trying to be nice. But when it's every day...and on the days when I'm feeling my fattest...I run out of appreciation for her well-meant words.

I've never liked the way I look. I've always been too fat. Too tall. Too...something. At the eye doctor today, the assistant told me my glasses needed adjusting, and I told her, "No, my nose is just crooked."

I'm trying. I am. It's hard for me to accept that people could see me as anything other than...a Fat Lady.

Fat Lady Arms

I felt great all day today. It was my weigh-in day, and I've been very, VERY good. I drank lots of water and prayed for a good day on the scale. Suddenly, this afternoon, I started to feel bloated. By the time I drove to my meeting, I felt so fat I could barely breathe.

At some point today, I was distracted by my arm laying on the desk. (I often get distracted by various parts of my body, if you hadn't noticed.) I pinched some flab, poking at the softnes, pulling the skin around my bones, trying to imagine what they would look like skinny.

I can't see it. I have huge arms. I hate them...and while I can feel the muscle I've been building, it's buried under layers of flab. And my hands are ridiculous. So small, I can't play piano because I can't reach the whole octave. My aunt has small hands, but she has slim wrists, also. I have small hands attached to thick wrists which morph into heavier arms.

I feel like a skinny girl trapped in a Fat Lady's body and I'll always be saddled with these Fat Lady arms. (Not that I'll be a skinny girl any time soon.)

I don't know why I'm feeling so down on myself today. I did GREAT this week. I'm down a total of 13.2 pounds. Good for me...and my Fat Lady arms.

Love what you Do. Do what you Love.

Last year, I spent some time searching for a publishing house where I could submit the romance novel I slaved over for two years.

(To answer the questions I know will come, my book was rejected for reasons of content. The story is good, and I will resubmit and resubmit and resubmit until I'm published.)

While paging through page after page of submission guidelines, a link on one page caught my eye. Employment.

I clicked on it.

There were job listings for readers...they paid in trinkets and gratitude but I thought it would be perfect for me. I love to read...and would love the opportunity to read never-before-seen material. As I scrolled down the page, I discovered another job listing for editors. Are you called the “comma queen” by your critique partners? Do people line up to have you do a critique because they know they will get something solid in return? It was as if the ad was written just for me. I followed the link and emailed the editor-in-chief to introduce and brag about myself.

We emailed back and forth and a few days later, she called me for a phone interview. I was up to my wrists in cheeseball when the phone rang and I quickly washed my hands and locked myself in my room to escape the calls of "Mommy, I'm hungry," and "She's touching my stuff!" for a while. The phone call went well and by the end of our conversation, she told me she would mail me a contract.

And I became an editor.

It's been the experience of a lifetime and I feel blessed every day to have been given this opportunity. The pay is minimal. At times, it's thankless. But I love it.

I make my editorial debut in July with the release of Lara Stephens' Hit Reply, to be published by The Wild Rose Press.

I am loving what I do. And doing what I love.

You Raise Me Up...

I got my new sports bra in the mail yesterday, just in time for this morning's Turbo Kick.

I have some serious issues with sports bras. They're uncomfortable. They're expensive. They're hard to find.

Hard to find in my size, anyway. I've got a Gigantic chest. No, not Enormous or Full-sized. Gigantic. At least it's not Huge. (Get it now? Yeah. Ha ha, I'm hilarious.)

I pulled it out of the box and held it up for inspection. "Oh, my God. This thing is gigantic."
"Well, honey," said the Hubster, somewhat proudly, "so are your boobs."
And what can I say to that? When he's right, he's right.

When I rolled out of bed this morning, I was very excited to have some extra support. I usually wear a regular bra and a tank top with a built in bra. (Those things are jokes, by the way, NOT built for someone who's built like me.) It's hard not to notice the bounce when I'm facing a mirrored wall, and all I can hope is that no one else is noticing as well.

So I struggled into my gargantuan new undergarment, pausing to adjust the straps twice. I still ripped the damn thing when I finally got into it. Nothing a quick run through my Janome won't fix. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, I realized it gave me an odd Madonna-esque shape. I hopped up and down a couple of time, scrunching up my nose at the result. I dug out my tank top with the built in bra and decided, just to be safe, I would double bag it.

I was amazed at the end product and distracted through class because my stuff was actually where it was supposed to be. That tiny pee problem that I blame on childbirth almost 7 years ago still kept me from air-jacking, but hey, I jumped. I ran. There was minimal bouncing. (And Charlotte, who has had four children, air-jacks like a pro. I am ashamed.)

It's nice to have a good support system and feel more confident during my workout. There were half a million people there this morning and I talked to a couple of newbies after class. They said they really enjoyed it and they're planning on coming back for Wednesday class. I welcomed them and told them they should keep it up because it's a great workout and lots of fun. One asked me how many classes it takes to get the moves down. I said, "Are you kidding me? I'm STILL trying to get them all down." It's a fun time, though!

Food is going well today, though it will go better once all the Holiday junk is out of my house. I sent the Hubster to the store with a list divided into two parts: BUY and DON'T BUY. The former included bottled water, fruits and veggies, and double-fiber-whole-grain bread. The latter included peanut butter, tortillas, and cheese. There is half a log of summer sausage, a huge block of cheese, and a box of crackers calling my name, but I'm trying to shut them up with clementines and apples.

I'm done being a yo-yo.

Head Start...

Things have been going...well. I've lost a total of 12.8 pounds doing Weight Watchers--I've gained a couple pounds back over the holidays, but I really feel like I have a head start on the New Year's Resolution crowd. There were a number of new members at my last meeting, and I'm curious to see how many there will be this week.

I'll be hitting Turbo Kick tomorrow morning with what Jennie calls "the tourists." The people who make a resolution to workout more and invade the YMCA in January, only to disappear months weeks days later.

I'm feeling better about myself. My pants are looser, my face is thinner, and I feel like I'm making better choices. (No, not 100% of the time. I can't be expected to forsake every Christmas cookie I meet.) Even a bought with bronchitis hasn't kept me down, although it did keep me out of Turbo for a couple weeks.

I only made one resolution this year...I'm going to win the lottery. It's a start, anyway.

Compliments

I got my first weight loss compliment the other day. A friend that I work with patted herself under the chin and said, "You look thinner here." (Thanks, K, I love ya!)

I rolled my eyes and said, "Yeah, 4 pounds." But at least it's something, right?

During Turbo Kick on Wednesday, the instructor called me out in front of everyone.
"Hey," she said, "You kicking it twice this week?"
"Yeah," I said, breathlessly, as we were already well into the warm-up.
"You are?" she asked.
"Yeah, twice."
"This week?"
"Yeah, this week."
"Okay...you know that means you have to come again, right, because Saturday was LAST week!"

Ha, ha. Very funny, right? She got me. And I DID go twice. Two weeks in a row. Good for me.
(Probably won't go twice this week, though, I have to work on Saturday.)

No Hope for Fat Ladies...

I was sitting at my desk yesterday morning when I suddenly became very dizzy. It was a strange feeling, and one I couldn't quite shake. Later, my ear began hurting, and it crossed my mind that I probably had an ear infection. (Because I went swimming...I've developed them the last couple of times I've gone...I think I'll start wearing ear plugs.)

I went to urgent care on my way home, and when the nurse asked me to step on the scale, I asked if I could just tell her my weight. She wrote it down, and I told her that I had just weighed in at Weight Watchers (WW or "Quad V" as my friend calls it) the night before. She asked me which one I was going to, and told me that she had done WW herself years before. She said that she lost almost 40 pounds and had tears in her eyes as she told me that none of her numbers went down...her cholesterol, her blood pressure...everything stayed the same. The nurse looked at me and said, "You think you're going to lose the weight and it's going to fix everything and it just doesn't."

I was shocked that she had shared such personal information with me and a little intimidated, too. If there's no hope, then why bother, right?

But I will bother. My glucose was down at my appointment this year, and I want to keep it that way. I don't want the label of Type 2 diabetes, and I know that's what's in store for me if I don't lose some weight.

I'm working on it. I have hope. (I also have an ear infection.)

Not New Anymore...

So, it's been a week. (Kind of...almost.) I got my monthly friend (even though I'm not supposed to have it right now) this week, and I'm feeling fatter than ever. I hate this.

It hasn't stopped me from eating right and exercising every day. Go me.

I even went to Turbo Kick twice this week. (Am I awesome or what?) During the class, the instructor yelled at me for not keeping my fists closed. "Who are you going to hurt with that punch? You're not new anymore, sister." No. No, I am not new to Turbo Kick anymore. I am, however, still fat. And while I wasn't about to blurt that out in a room full of people, it didn't stop me from thinking it and repeating it over and over again for the rest of class.

It never hit me...really, until just now...that being fat shouldn't keep me from keeping a tight fist. I might not move as fast as everyone else in the class, and I sure as hell don't look as good, but I can do the moves correctly. I know it's working...just moving that hard for that long each week is helping me. My arms aren't bulging with muscles and my six-pack is still hiding under layer upon layer of flab, but I know it's helping.

I've got to quit using being fat as an excuse.

Watching my Weight

Here I go again...

Joined Weight Watchers tonight. For good this time.

I know.

I know it's been a while.
Forever, in fact.

I'm BUSY. I'm editing my heart heart out now, and loving every minute of it.

The Hubster and I started South Beach (Again) Super charged on the 6th of July. I'm down about 15 pounds--which is a start at least.

Ran into a friend after swim class at the Y last week, and she invited us to do the Turbo kick class with her and her husband. I wrote it on my calendar for tomorrow night. (Gulp.)

Got the Hubster's credit report emptied...working on mine.

Got a raise. (Hooray!)

Got a new wedding ring.

Got school shopping for two kids to get started on. (Yikes!)

I'm living. Be proud. (And wait for me. I'm around.)

We are Not Alone

Here's a Y update.

I've been three times. The Hubster and Big Sis have been a little bit more...Little Sis was asleep last week, I was editing a book, and another night, I was off scrapbooking...We've just been BUSY!

Today, I biked 11 or so miles...last time, I did 12.5, but I had a NOISY bike today! I walked a little more than half a mile. I did that blasted triceps machine for 10 reps today! (Last time, I did 5.) I swam 8 laps. (2 last time...oops!)

During my laps around the track, I passed one of the exercise studios a few times. I think it was the Turbo Kick class...it looked fun and interesting, and a little exhausting. I tried not to stare through the windows as I walked by, because I know that I wouldn't have liked it if I was in the class...but it was hard not to glance in every round.

There were men and woman of varying ages and sizes participating in the class, and I thought I might give it a try some time. The first time I passed it, I noticed a heavy woman in the back row. She was heavier than I am, and I was impressed with her actions in keeping up with the rest of the class. Each time I passed, I saw her there, silently cheering her on. Go, Fat Lady, Go! On my fourth pass, though, I noticed she was missing from the back row. As I rounded the corner, she stepped onto the track, red faced and puffing, an apologetic look on her face. Great job! I wanted to tell her. You were working hard in there...I've been thinking of trying it myself. Of course, I said nothing. I wasn't sure of proper etiquette, so I kept my mouth shut.

Soon, I caught up to the woman, and I debated whether or not I should pass her and the woman ahead her--who was also heavy...or if I should just slow my pace. I don't like passing people. I have to speed up to pass them, and if I end up slowing my pace, then they'll end up passing ME. I hate passing people. In the end, I decided to pass them, and I did so, wondering how we looked, three Fat Ladies trying to desperately to save ourselves.

"Y" Not?

Yesterday, the Hubster and I took the girls to our local YMCA and became members. We dropped Little Sister off at the daycare, and the rest of us headed upstairs to check it out. (Big Sister went there a few times over the summer before the membership her mom carried on her was cancelled, so she graciously showed us around.) She and I tried out some recumbent bikes while the Hubster tried to prove just how macho he is with the dudes working the weight machines.

After that, we all walked a lap, then ran a lap...okay, Big Sis and Hubster ran a lap while I ran about 3/4 of one. (My chest was killing me...maybe after I find a better sports bra.) Then I decided to test some of the weight machines...I've been looking for some major arm work. I last three reps on the triceps machine with the minimum weight--five pounds. My triceps were burning, they hurt so bad. (My mom told me to look on the bright side, and try and do it four times next time. We'll see.)

Later, we picked up Little Sis and all of us went to the pool. We took turns watching her--that girl seriously needs some swimming lessons, it's next on my list, I swear!--while the rest of us played, Big Sis did the rope swing, and the Hubster and I swam laps. He made it 3, and I forced myself to do 10. I almost died after the first one--it's a LONG pool!--but I made it. My arms are feeling it today. 33 laps makes a mile, so maybe next time, I'll do 15...then 20...then 30...THEN 33. (I don't think I need to do more than that, really. Yikes!)


Tonight, instead of sitting down to write, I made myself get some exercise first. The great Tanya Little (Oops! I meant Tony, of course! The hair always throws me...) recommends just 5 minutes every other day on his new toy for beginners. I've had it since we got back into town on Thursday, and I've faithfully done my 5 minutes every other day since. So it's only been 3 times that I've used it, but I swear I feel my legs getting stronger already.

I'm such a sucker for infomercials, though I can usually will myself away from the phone or the computer. I happened upon Ms. Little on HSN one night, and couldn't seem to stop watching. My first thought was "that looks like something I would fall off." But as I watched more and more, I just became more interested. I mean, FREE shipping, for goodness' sake. And FLEX pay options! I was hooked. When they set up with the "first time users," I told the Hubster, "If they show a fat lady doing it, I'm buying it." Well, the third lady in was fat enough, so I hopped out of bed and bought it in a flash. The next day, I read the not-so-stellar reviews and started having second thoughts, but I figured I would give it a flash. People complained about the smell--which was awful at first, but went away very quickly. They also complained about it moving across the carpet--which I haven't had a problem with, and also about it squeaking--which again, I haven't experienced. Whatever, right? It's a fun little thing that we all can and will use. Totally worth it, in my opinion. (I plan on adding my review, soon...just wanted a few more sessions to get acquainted with it!)

Maybe There is Something to It...

I'm staring to think there is something to this destiny thing.

Tonight, I finished wrapping Christmas presents and was putting everything away when the shelf in my bedroom suddenly gave way. I was kind of stunned at first, thanking God nothing had landed on my head and knocked me out. Then I realized that was completely pinned down. (The shelves aren't heavy, but we keep cookbooks, magazines, etc, there, and that stuff IS heavy.) My leg was twisted funny because I was reaching to put stuff away, and my left thigh was stuck under the rubble.

Of course it was.

Because I was going to put my wrapping stuff away, get up off my fat butt and go exercise. I SWEAR I was. TODAY was the day. (Don't look at your computer screen like that! I meant it this time! I'm going to fucking Disney World and I don't want to be too damn fat for everything!)

I could barely stand and my thigh is bruising nicely already. I guess...at least I'm alive, right?

Family Pride

My brother has had his low points. He's had trouble with drugs...with the law. He stole our mother's jewelry to pawn for meth money. He's stolen checks. He's lied. He's hurt a lot of people. He has not been a very good person.

Today he graduated into the National Guard. There have been times I wanted to wash my hands of him; I was so angry with him and the choices he made.

Today, I am so proud of him, I am almost bursting. I contemplated driving 6 hours to see him and then 6 hours home to make it in time to go to work tomorrow. (Obviously, I didn't do that.)

I am so proud of him and this choice that he made. Lots of the kids that signed up with him went home. They gave up and never made it. He stuck it out...and his goals are so different now. He wants to go to college. He wants to get a good job. He wants to make something of himself.

We've been texting back and forth tonight as he's trying to get home. He told me some guy told him "Thanks for serving," and gave him airline money to buy drinks on the plane. He also said "Too bad I'm not 21 yet." In the weeks before basic training, he was pulled over (underage) for a DUI...now I trust him to make the right decision. He sent me another message telling me he'd been upgraded to first class.

Politically, no matter what personal views on the war are, our service men and women deserve our support and respect. I'm so proud of my brother for making the choice to stand up for our country.

God Bless.

The Great Closet Clean-Out

I have big closets.



They're huge. This picture of the one in the girls' room was taken shortly after we moved in and got all unpacked. (Hence the reason everything looks so clean and organized!) My closet is exactly the same...except it's jam packed full of crap.

Dresses: I have a brand new $400 wedding dress hanging up in the garmet bag with the tags still attached. I have the maternity dress that I actually wore for my wedding hanging next to it. I also have all my old prom dresses.

Jeans: HOLY shit, do I have a lot of jeans. Fat jeans, skinny jeans, and every size in between jeans. Lots and lots of jeans.

Hangers: The next time we're at the thrift store, and I say, "Hey, we should get some hangers while we're here," tell me NO! NO, NO, NO! We have enough fucking hangers!

Pictures: The Hubster is a photographer. An honest to God-used-to-get-paid-to-take-pictures photographer. I have so many damn pictures, it's insane. At our old place, we had wall space for them. We had a whole wall dedicated to his hockey pictures, etc. Not here, though. Here, they live in a box. (Some of them were still wrapped in newspaper from our move over a year ago.)

"Time Capsule" Objects: Again, that would be the Hubster. That man...he's a pack rat. I cannot get him to throw shit away. We have the paper from our kids' birthdays every fucking year. The whole damn paper. And maybe, MAYBE, one day, it will be fun to look back on them...but right now, when we're living in an apartment the size of a bathroom, it's not OKAY with me to keep them. Perhaps if he took care of them...preserved them so that they're actually readable in a few years, it would be okay with me...Right now? NOT OKAY.

Fabric: This one is all me. Like I have time to make that quilt, right? Out, out, OUT!

STUFF: Where the hell did all this stuff come from? I don't care what it is. I don't care how it got here. I just want it out of my closet! If it's been on the floor, in a box, or shoved into a corner for the past year, I probably don't need it anymore. (Okay, the handheld Uno game I forgot I had was a pretty cool find...along with the other half of my jewelry box.)

It's getting there...I had to wrap Christmas presents tonight, too. One of these days, my kids are going to wonder why they're banned from my room this time of year. One of these days, I'm going to be able to find all the presents I bought for them. One of these days, I'm going to fit into all those clothes hanging on "The Back Rack."

But not today. I swear, just thinking about getting up to exercise made me start coughing. Must be my body telling me I'm still too sick...right?

One Last Kiss

When I was growing up, my mother wanted me to date more.

Not that she wanted me to be a floozy...she just didn't want me to fall for one guy and get "stuck" at a young age.

She was married to my stepfather, and I knew how their relationship was, so I adamantly refused to take love life advice from her. Sometimes, though, I wish that I had listened.

I did tend to fall for just one guy...I never dated around. I thought I was fat. (And I was, but it wasn't fatal.) I was terrible at choosing, too. I picked the one that hit me. The one that never respected me. The one who hurt me time and time again.

Since I didn't date a lot of boys, I didn't kiss a lot of boys, either. Unfortunately, I can count on one hand the number I've kissed. (God, is that pathetic? I guess I'd never thought of it like that before.)

Don't get me wrong. The Hubster is a great kisser. But we're married. We have jobs, and kids, and a home to take care of. We don't waste much time just kissing. (Because when we do, it tends to lead to other things!)

I don't know why I'm so hung up on kissing...probably because I'm sick and haven't been doing much kissing of anyone lately.

I do wish I had kissed more boys. It's weird, I know, but I do.