Darn code.

I hab a code. It has been bugging me for two weeks. I cough and I wheeze. De only time I don't cough is when I am asleep. First it was the flu and then it was a code.

I hate dis code.

Sniff. Achoo!

Never say "Diet"

Quick update, for those interested (Hi, Mom, the tumor is getting smaller, and for those of you who now are worried about me and haven't kept up, read this before panicking):

Miles ridden since June 22: 783.
New pants purchased due to the new dress code at work and not wanting to be a sagger: 6.
Pounds temporarily reassigned and hopefully terminated: 20.
Pull-ups accomplished at the whim of sweet personal trainer's sudden dark side: 10 (And, really, WTH???).
Really cool "Livestrong" biking outfit that I never would have worn before because it would make people that that atom smasher under Switzerland had actually caused black holes to blossom thereby bringing about the end of the world (and it was 70% off!): 1.

Although, you know, work certainly cuts into one's cycling time....

Queen was right-- we do make the rockin' world go round.

Bicycle! Bicycle!

Update, for those of you wondering:

19 days on the weight loss regimen.
224 miles on the bike; average speed 16.5 mph.
3 visits with the personal trainer. Ow.
10 miles hiked. 59 chigger bites. Ow.
8 pounds wandering around looking for a new home.
273 showers taken.
1 funky tan on both legs that begins above the knee.

Really love the bike!

Summer's lease hath all too short a date

It's hard to believe how quickly summer break has zipped along-- and we are not even officially IN summer yet. I have been trying to get serious about fitness this summer, now that it has become common knowledge that I am the reason why Pluto was downgraded from full-sized planet status- really, how can Pluto compete with my keister? Answer: It can't. I mean, I am afraid of going waterskiing on the Mississippi for fear that, if I fall in, another levee will be breached and I will be solely responsible for yet another town to have sandbagged for nothing. I am here to tell you that I once met Sir Mix-a-Lot and Freddie Mercury, and yes, those three songs are MY FAULT, and if Nelly had met me first, he would have been rapping about "Boulder Bottoms," not "Apple Bottoms."

And let's face it: teaching is NOT conducive to fitness. The stress makes you exhausted, so you're too tired to work out. You have a hard time sleeping, which numerous studies have implicated in the inability to lose weight. If you forget your lunch, you have to eat starch-crammed cafeteria food. You get ten minutes to eat. And now I have to take cholesterol medicine, and my blood-pressure is creeping up toward normal-- which, for me, is high. And my knees are beginning to hurt. So I need to get going.

So I have decided to get back into biking (new bike!), and the Hubster decided that perhaps a personal trainer might also be a good thing to get me in shape for the biking-- and, doubtless, to spare him from the whining about agonizing muscle pain. We are members at the YMCA, and so I contacted a personal trainer who seemed to be a good fit from her description, avoiding the personal trainer WHO IS THE FATHER OF A STUDENT, because, really, can you work out when you're freaked out about whether a parent is going to be thinking about your cottage-cheese thighs blossoming out of work-out clothes as you strain away at a Nautilus machine the next time parent-teacher conference time comes up?

Nonononononono. Getting my fat arse going is hard enough without adding in layers of psychological trauma, thankyewverrymuch.

So I called this gal. And then I waited. And walked on the treadmill and tried to get myself started anyway.

After several days, I gave up, and called another gal. And I waited. And played tennis with the kids while listening to two half-nekkid foul-mouthed macho men curse at each other on the next court over. IKYN. Including the frequent use of a word, that, if you love Bull Durham like I do, you will recall is one of the few words that will immediately get one tossed from a ballgame if one uses it to refer to an umpire. Explaining that word to my middle child was LOADS of fun.

I thought about calling the Y and simply asking for the number of a personal trainer who actually WANTED a new client, but I had been assured that they were ALL open for new clients. So apparently, there is TIME, and there is "Y TIME." It's like the Caribbean concept of "Mañana."

So just now? Within hours of each other? They BOTH called back. The annoyance is that the one who called first seems to be the least certain already that she can fit her schedule into mine, even though I am OFF FOR THE SUMMER, so what does that mean? Thus, I may end up with the second one.

But all I want is for there to be less of me.

UPDATE: Yes, while out on the golf course I got a phone call from gal number one needing to reschedule. NOT a surprise. So I told her to "never mind" and I'll try gal number two. I have so far spent THREE WEEKS trying to get to see a personal trainer. I could have knitted one by now.