Hot, sweaty & out of breath

I've done it again. I've puffed up a bit too much...maybe a lot to much. Pants are too tight and my cheekbones and collarbones have disappeared under soft layers of lightly freckled skin. I don't look great and I don't feel great, so something's gotta give.

Yesterday I took the first step and signed up for yet another gym membership. Clearly the last gym didn't stick...or rather, I didn't stick to it. In my defense of pure avoidance of that hellhole though, I'll share that I was once the unfortunate witness to a rat running across the gym and the manager chasing after it with his bare hands. As if huffing and puffing in a place that smells like an old sock wasn't bad enough, now rodents were in on the act. The blonde wood, personal televisions and stadium-style bicycles for spinning give me hope that the new gym will be a pleasant enough atmosphere in which to constantly feel like I'm gasping for breath.

Today, I took the second step and actually waddled on in and got my bootie moving. Sweet heavens, I'm out of shape. If only I could put on some tight stretchy pants and a sports bra and look like a gazelle while quickly skimming the surface of the treadmill.

And maybe one day I will, but first it's going to take an awful lot of sweating while looking like my true self...which is a lot closer to Bridget Jones. (Trust me on that. I caught my own reflection today.)

I only share this here because publicly humiliating myself is a tactic for a better bod that I haven't yet tried. Success is the only option - I don't relish the idea of shopping for larger pants.