So for the past week I’ve been counting Weight Watcher POINTS! again, because I’m cool like that. This, after months and months of unaccounted-for overconsumption of all things POINT-Y and otherwise, during which time I was not only off the wagon but also gleefully throwing things at it: dirt clods, rocks; maybe pieces of rotisserie chicken if I had any nearby, and often I did.
I enjoyed this little era of my life so much that now, it feels a tad inappropriate for me to be standing out here waiting for the wagon–or whatever vehicle might metaphorically represent a major weight loss program–to pick me up. Though obviously the big flaw in this analogy is that I don’t need a fucking wagon ride so much as I need to walk more, or bike more, or perhaps elliptically-cross-train more over the imaginary and curiously gravity-free terrain for which the elliptical cross-trainer trains you, and no shit, I plan to get RIGHT on all that, people. Soon.
I did ride my bicycle today along the lakefront for the second time in week. I felt very virtuous until, about thirty seconds into my ride, I encountered about 5,000 other people in matching sweatshirts on a 4-mile fitness walk for breast cancer who were therefore automatically better than I was. I mean I watched them striding by gloriously and was all: oh, yeah? You’re raising money for a cure for cancer? Well, I’M trying to raise five Activity POINTS! to eat some cheese, so there. But then, unlike me, they’d all thought to wear warm gloves today. Just for them I shook an icy, wind-chapped fist at breast cancer. Screw you, B.C.!
I’ve been meaning to return to Women’s Workout World or else investigate this other gym I might join, but I haven’t been able to bring myself to do either as long as there’s still a little bit of sunlight left after work. As some of you know, I spent most of the summer indoors with my fingers fused to an iBook, which in turn fed on my life force like a great sucking spiritual tick, and now I keep going outside and picking up leaves and stroking them against my face. Sometimes I’ll even stroll around on my weak, wobbly limbs, like that kid from The Secret Garden, and pretend that this makes a huge difference. I am far from being in shape, and farther still from being the Competitive Aerobicizer that I once–briefly–fantasized I was.
(I found this most excellent picture on a web page about aerobic competitons. I’d seen commercials for the telecasts of such things but I forgot that they existed until I read about them in this Cintra Wilson book that I’m loving right now, which is not even the new Cintra Wilson book, which I plan to read next. But still: Aerobic Competitions! Strangely enough, when I did an image search, most of the websites that I found were all from France, and you’d think the very concept of Competitive Aerobics would curdle the creamy, buttery souls of French people, but this doesn’t seem to be the case.)
Anyway. I am trying to take this seriously. Bear with me. More later.