Mountains of Flesh

I feel myself sinking into my normal winter sloth…a hibernation really. The only thing I want to eat is pasta. Red wine is my only other desire. I don’t know why I obsess about my weight in the winter when the my body is swathed in layers of cloth rather than during the warm months when there is far more flesh exposed…I think it is all those New Year’s Resolutions

My normal passion of walking in the city is stymied by unforgiving weather. I, instead, am reduced to wandering the hallways of the university like some forlorn and chubby ghost.

I attempt to pull myself out of these winter doldrums by taking out my barely used yoga mat and exercise DVD and following instructions of some overly perky woman with tiny, bizarrely rippling, stomach muscles. Together we bounce through seemingly pointless exercises….SEEMINGLY until the following morning when I realize exactly where all those little tiny muscles are on MY stomach.

This mind-numbing torture goes on for several days until the morning I wake up late and the following morning when I realize I would really rather have another cup of coffee than an earful of “1, 2, 3, 4—inhale, exhale…GOOD JOB. “

This is my downfall…because once I miss a few days—really—what’s the point of continuing during the week—I can make the rest up during weekend when I will have PLENTLY of time…of course on the weekend—the couch beckons like an old boyfriend I know is no good for me. And I fall and the cats and The Beast fall with me. We all lie on the couch like bears in the den—waiting and weighting for the winter to end.