The Endless Weight

While I was home in September, Travis introduced me and my extra 20+ Spain Pounds to the Abs Diet. A staunch acolyte of the Carbs Are The Devil trend, I was horrified to see forbidden fruits, breads, and ilk floating around his apartment. You can't eat those and get skinnier! Gasp gasp. Shock. Anyways, the abridged version is that I've been on the diet since I got back to Spain and my belly is shrinking away. This is just about the best thing I can think of right now, as I was almost forced into wearing maternity pants and carrying around the big book of baby names. No really, I've gained that much weight. Suffice to say, it's been nice to watch my gut go in the opposite direction, inward not out.

The good thing about the diet -- the book prefers to call it a "lifestyle regimen" and I have unfortunately found myself voicing that same phrase to friends -- is that it wants you to get healthy; gone are the days of sitting around watching TV and losing weight because you're starved for JUST.ONE.FRICKIN.SLICE.OF.BREAD.PLEASE. Following the book's every notion to the letter, I've joined a gym. Now, regular gym attendance hasn't been part of my modus operandi in a few years, so I'm admittedly a little out of practice; but the disconcerting thing is that I am in all likelihood the most overweight member of the gym. Not that I think I'm a complete tub of lard or anything, but really, it's me and the beautiful people working their abs. I guess the positive spin is that I'm far from bored while people ogling. I've actually invented a new game which involves picking what I want my future, sixpacked self to look like. It's like grocery shopping: I'll take a sixpack of the abs, a pair of calves, and two nice, rounded pectorals.