Getting Rid of the Junk in Your Trunk is Damn Hard if You Recycle

When the P-Dawg came home from work yesterday, I was sitting at the kitchen table, dejectedly staring out the window and eating potato chips.

"What's up, Rimster?"

"Man, I am sooooo depressed. I went dress shopping for D's wedding today and, holy crap, nothing fit! I got junk in the trunk, P-Dawg!" said I, shoving a mouthful of Dan-Dee rippled potato chips down my gullet and chasing them with a swig of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale.

(My situation necessitated emergency caloric fortification in preparation for the diet I planned to start the next day. Because there was rather a lot of trunk junk, to be honest - a whole slew of empty Ben and Jerry's pints, some Reese's chocolate peanut butter egg wrappers, and possibly even a couple of crushed beer cans. I was headed straight for an SUV in the pants.)

P-Dawg tactfully assessed it with a quick sidelong glance and said, "Don't worry, Rimster, your a$$ isn't that big. Pass those chips, please."

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I freely admit I have been eating more and moving less all winter.

It's been difficult to eat well since the P-Dawg, trying to recoup the twenty pounds he's lost over the last month as the result of his snore-no-more surgery, is now eating like Renee Zelwegger before her starring role in Bridget Jones' diary.

You may already know that I've been loathe to go back to Jazzercising after the J-dog's December freakout in the day care room. But what really sealed the deal was when a friend told me that when they start slacking off at her BodySlam class? The instructor bellows, "WHAT DO YOU GUYS THINK THIS IS? JAZZERCISE???"

(I have to admit that, at times, Jazzercise did seem a bit too easy. I mean, when the blue haired lady with the walker and the housedress doesn't even break a sweat while doing crunches to the sounds of Simon and Garfunkel, you kind of have to wonder.)

So, now that the weather is finally turning here in the frozen tundra, I've decided to hang up the crazy stripe leg warmers and leopard print leotard in favor of a J-dog approved exercise regimen: walking.

This morning, after dropping the V-meister off at school, the J-dog and I set off on a long walk over the hills and dales of our 'hood. I even weighed my pockets down with a bunch of rocks all Virgina Woolf style, having long ago read in some stupid baby magazine that this was a sure way to crank it up a notch while strollercizing.

(I am also deathly afraid of dogs, and felt that the rocks could double as ammunition if I were to find myself duking it out with the Rottweilers two blocks over.)

We had a nice long walk, even though, when all was said and done, I ended up chucking all the rocks out, piecemeal, onto my neighbors' lawns.

Not in self-defense, mind you. They were heavy and anyway, after about twenty minutes of vigorous walking, I felt sure that I was back to a size four already.

Indeed, I was feeling so good about my workout, that immediately after dropping the kids off at my parents' house for an afternoon of grandparent sanctioned Krispy Kreme and apple juice freebasing, I swung by H&M and bought myself two pairs of capris in the next size down.

Which I was able to squeeze into before lunch if I peed first and lay down while holding my breath to zip them, but not so much after.

Nevertheless, I have full confidence in my new fitness plan, and I'm feeling better already!

So much so that I might even kick back with a celebratory ice cream sundae tonight after the kidz are in bed.