According to the BMI, I need to lose so much weight that I might as well just check myself into Baylor and ask them to put me in a medically induced coma for three months.  The BMI has no idea that when I am mid-range of their scale, I look malnourished.  It’s okay.  They don’t know that my bone structure is that of a Clydesdale.

According to the trainer guy at my gym, his pincers, scale, chart, and tape measure (eeyaugh!), I should lose 46lbs to be at my optimal weight.  I like his better.  I don’t like jagged edges, though, so I’m going to clean that 46 down to 40 and work toward that goal.  Then, when I am with women who are complaining about their weight, I won’t make them feel inferior with my perfection.  I can still agree, “I know.  Supposedly, I should weigh 6lbs less to be my physical best.  It is so hard being me!” 

See, I’ve got 20 to get back to where I was this time last year, when I got laid off and started eating at Sonic every day.  Sonic is made of crack cocaine.  It is evil.  And maxi dresses are so forgiving.  It was like I was eating the devil and wearing an angel. 

I have yo-yo’ed for a full year now, finally gaining back into my red light territory.  It’s exhausting.  I can either quit and resign myself to a life of caftans and tater tots, or I can pick myself up again and work at my fitness.  Since the best thing about life is that you get to start over again every morning, and since I have a gym membership, I’m rebuking the tater tots in the name of Jebus and resisting the lure of the elastic waistband.

I’m not turning this blog into a weight loss diary, and have decided not to post my weight as I’ve done before.  If it’s that important, you’re welcome to look me up on and friend me there.  I will be keeping a tally of my goal here.  I am working toward a 40lbs weight loss in 52 weeks.

I figured out that I can do at least 30 minutes in the gym on my lunch hour ( future blog entries to include how to work out on a lunch hour and still smell nice) and I’m hoping I can find a way to get into the lap pool for an hour at least once a week.  Other than that I’ll be on my routine of calorie counting Monday through Thursday, eating whatever the foo I feel like on Fridays, and living moderation on the weekends. 

Why?  Because my favorite pants don’t fit and when I waved goodbye to Thor this morning, my arm kept going long after the wave was finished.