Suddenly I have a plethora of good news and I hardly know where to begin. It's such a rare and lovely situation; forgive me for wanting to sit back and sip it slowly, single-malt style.

The good news is that I have a trainer again. The better news is that it's the trainer I've wanted all along: yes, I'm working with Val again. Her life has calmed down enough that she has time to add back a few clients, and that calmness coincided with my decision to toss her a why-not email to see if maybe she'd still have time for me.

Amazing. About a week before Christmas, suddenly the suburban population of Huntsville wakes up and says, collectively, "Holy shit, Christmas is next weekend?

Notes from the couch while watching television:

"I'm not exactly sure how that diet pill works, but apparently it makes you turn around and yell 'Yes!'"


"You know, that would be kinda dangerous if that happened to me while I was on an elliptical machine."


"Good thing you don't have to exercise while taking diet pills, I guess."

* * * * *

Now. I've gotta ask you people something. Maybe you know the answer. Maybe you don't.

My schedule lately has dictated slightly later swims than I'd prefer. I love the serenity that comes from knowing that I am solely responsible for any and all of the waves in the pool, and I admit I find it a little funny to see the changing of the lifeguards knowing the only life they are guarding is mine.

Despite being the same people, the nine a.m. - ten a.m. guards are different than the noontime guards. Winter weekday mid-mornings discourage casual swimmers, and the only people likely to be seen jumping in the water are the regulars. Regularity brings chatter: they are the ones that come in every day, who know that Sam's wife just had a baby (and named her Megan Elizabeth) and that Tall Brian (as opposed to Dark Short Brian) is planning a road trip to Florida in a couple of weeks.

I tiptoed back early from Jeff's family's Thanksgiving celebrations, in order to do the house chore I'd been putting off for a month. I'd had a gallon of light blue paint sitting on the back floorboard of my car for a month, and it had been quietly taunting me every time I saw it."You don't have the time or energy to paint with me, do you?"

Every time I got in my car the week of Thanksgiving, I stuck my tongue out at it.

Thursday afternoon, comfortably sleepy on turkey and "fixins" -- although, I might add, at about zero vegetables for the day -- I made myself a plate of Thanksgiving food to go, wrapped it in foil, and drove home. Jeff needed to stay another night at his parents' to work on their computers (it wouldn't be a major holiday for geeks if we didn't work on someone's computer) and I was determined to get this painting done.

Off day, you see. An enforced off day at that.

You know the funniest thing about making that silly weight goal? When it happened, when I first realized that the scale didn't have a sense of humor and was really saying what I thought it said, it didn't even matter.It had just been that crappy of a day.

All those years. Yikes. All those years of wondering what it would be like to step on the scale and finally see the magic number, imagining the quiet light of joy in my heart, the feeling of accomplishment and peace when I realized I'd done it -- well, it didn't quite happen that way. Instead, I stood on the scale, looked at the numbers, crossed my arms over my chest and laughed. Of course it would happen on the day that I skipped my swim due to exhaustion, on the day I considered figuring out how one could actually, physically, drag oneself to the gym, because I was too tired for anything other than ersatz enthusiasm.