My weight loss project has not turned out the way I had hoped many weeks ago.
That is, I haven't lost any weight.
As Ed once told Mama and Eunice, "Why don't you just tattoo it across my forehead: F-A-Y-L-U-R."
And this last week of chaos at work wreaked havoc on my eating plans. I started the week with a bang and ended with a whimper. And with a couple of hot dogs, which I haven't enjoyed so much in a long time.
But then I had to face the music, otherwise known as the owner of the gym.
Who decided it was time to use the calipers on me to see why I'm not losing on the scale, in the hopes that I'm losing fat while gaining muscle which doesn't necessarily show up on the scale.
Turns out, not so much positive news.
And then he cocks his head and says in the most earnest, gentle way: "You've gotta get on the ball."
[Insert Law & Order gavel sound.]
So at 7:00 pm, I laced up my tennis shoes and took off in the neighborhood, aiming for 45 minutes of jogging.
Did I mention 7 pm, after a long day of work and chores and meals?
So I took off and began the masochism.
It hit 90* in Indiana today, so 20 minutes into the run, I was hearing the lyrics "Been through the desert on a horse with no name ..." because I was hallucinating about the Lab who ran across my path.
But then I had that Jillian mirage, where she always says, "If you're not fainting, vomiting or dying, keep going."
So I think the horse with no name is really named Jillian.
That's when a neighbor threw up a wave at me and yelled, "Hey, Linda. It's 90*!"
Thanks, Neighbor. I wasn't sure I was dying, but now I am.
So then I slogged all the way home and wrote this just to document to the gym owner: "I got on the ball. With no name. It felt good to be out of the rain. When you're slogging, you can't remember your name, until your neighbor calls it out and causes you pain."