There was this time, some years back, when I sadly packed up all the little Size 5 pants and teensy, tiny tanks and t’s and sent them away. I told myself I was giving them to a nice farmer and his family, where they would live happily and free, have a better life than I ever gave them. And maybe I would get to visit them on weekends.

Ha. What a crock. That was it. They were gone. And Size 5 and me, we never met again. Sometimes I cried. Size 5 never looked back, as far as I could tell. Moved on to greener pastures.

Then we moved into the Even Numbers of Size, and puttered along at 6. 8. 6. 8. Oh sure. I flirted with 10 once or twice, but never got serious. I had this whole era of buying really expensive jeans on ebay, dirt cheap, and wearing them to work. Dog agility. Super skinny little jeans in reasonable sizes. Built up quite a stack in my clothes cabinet. They were my friends.

Something happened a while ago. I like to call it Christmas Cheer, if Christmas starts sometime in the spring and cheers it’s way through summer and rolls along into fall and by the time it’s actually Christmas, well ho ho ho. There’s some extra junk in the trunk where trunk equals maximum epidural surface area from all regions south of neck and north of ankle. Ho ho ho, little skinny friends, all lonely and folded in the cabinet. There was a trip to the Gap. Tunics. Puffy jackets.

I asked a newly svelte friend one day, how’d you do that? She said, “Had to stop eating like a man.”

Oh lord. I always have eaten like a lumberjack. Food groups include the pizza, taqueria, bakery and fancy beverage. But being someone that runs around a lot, through the forest, around the agility, down the beach, up to the barn, down to the arena, never seemed like much of a problem. Until you are 44 years old and you get the Christmas Cheer.

So I cut to the chase now. I cut to it whilst wearing a long, man size t-shirt and granny Spanx undergarments. Besides the somewhat modifying the man eating, we have a fitness project. Every morning, while other breathers in the house are still sleeping, mad crazy dance party in the dark. Sun hasn’t come out yet. I just fire up the itunes and off we go. There’s no other choice. The stack of pants in the cabinet, makes me weep. The thought of dog shows starting up again and good god. The jiggling and slow running potential.

Front cross hip hop with OutKast. Rear cross hustle with Kool and the Gang. Gwen Stefani serpentine. You get the idea. Do this until you are sweating really good and your ass hurts bad. That may or may not be long enough. When done, leash up the dogs, rain boots on if neccessary, and walk run walk run as fast as you can all the way to the ocean. Try not to walk. Run back with dogs pulling like tiny little iditarods.

I’ll let you know in a few weeks if it’s working. It has to. It will. Otherwise, there will be trouble.