Lets Get Physical, Physical

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know I vowed never to go to the gym until I hit 30. I claimed my new thighs and I could live in peace and harmony for years to come. But then out of nowhere a horrifying realization occurred. It happened in Alabama over the holiday season (where many horrifying realizations occurred). I don't keep a scale in my house. Never have. What's the point? Weight goes up, weight goes down. Usually in proportion to how many bags of gummy bears you eat with your alcohol. You don't need a scale to tell you you don't fit in your pants. But my momma does keep a scale. A nice, expensive glass top one, scientifically calculated to be absolutely accurate (or so it claims). And one morning, nekkid as a jay bird, I decide to get on it and see just how much weight I've gained since I've stopped being able to get in my old pants. And the answer was shocking! 1 pound. I had gained one technical pound since I last weighed in when my pants fit. And suddenly the world came crashing down. It was all pure, unadulterated fat, with a capital F that has invaded my stomach and thighs. Fat that doesn't weigh one goddamn bit proportionally to how much space its globbish shape takes up around your waist. I was perfectly content to live in my body when I thought I was just gaining weight faster than Delta Burke in Season 3 of Designing Women. But one effing pound. You're kidding. Seriously? This is unacceptable. Therefore, your faithful author trudged to New York Sports Club, tail between legs, like all good New Yorkers and plunked down a huge wad of cash so that I can use the elliptical machine like a rabid gerbil caught on a wheel. But I promise you, dear readers, to make this gym experience worthwhile for everyone by wearing only 80's leotards with leg warmers. This I solemnly swear to you.