Exponential Growth

As you probably already know, if you have read my blog posts before, I'm somewhat accident-prone.  Maybe it isn't so much as being accident-prone, as, well, frankly...I'm a klutz.  With a capital K.  That, and weird and awkward things often happen to me.  Fortunately, by now, with 28 years of experience under my belt, embarrassment and I have dare I say, become friends.  Friends may be a strong word...we have acclimated to one another.  Whether it's just managing to stuff nearly half a donut into my mouth at once in an effort to avoid the crumbles of icing going everywhere only to discover my boss standing right behind me, staring at me in disbelief, to tripping over a speed bump in the parking garage and landing on my hands and knees in front of a line of cars with the contents of my purse errupting and rolling all over the cement like an army of traitors disbanding in every direction; to realizing I have spent the better part of the day with my shirt inside out until someone I don't even know decides to point it out...I have learned to live with and swallow embarrassment.  As I sit and remember some of my most embarrassing moments, my husband has been there in a number of my lack luster escapades.  So, I wonder to myself why I have to do things like put panty hose on in a different room when my husband is around.  For me, putting on panty hose looks absolutely nothing like this:

And everything like this:

You would think that I wouldn't care after he has witnessed many of my embarrassing moments, but for some reason I cannot let him watch me worm my way to my panty hose by jumping, wiggling, jiggling, and finally, in an effort to completely mold them to my body, do a series of lunges across the bedroom. Really, there is no graceful or dignified way to put them on.  Especially when you are me.  And, for whatever reason, they always end up so high around my waist - nearly to my rib cage - that I even put Steve Urkel to shame.   Most people my age don't wear them anymore.  I do.  I have to.  It keeps you looking toned, and "held together".  Unfortunately, especially this time of year, things tend to jiggle a little more than usual.  Which brings me to my next topic:  Weight Gain.

After my husband picked me up at work one day last week, I started ranting and raving about how tight my jeans have become since Thanksgiving.  "This is drastic," I began, dramatically, "I have gained more weight in the last two or three weeks than I have the last two holiday seasons combined!  This is exponential growth!  Something has to be done.  My jeans are tight, my work pants are tight, nothing fits the way it is supposed to.  Either I have to lose weight or I will have to go up a size in clothes."  Without agreeing with me (which is one of the many reasons why I love him so much), Casey said, "You know, we could work out together, if you want.  I can help you.  That way you don't have to work out alone" 

"Uh oh," I thought, "he's really going to hold me accountable for this." Instantly the thought of working out seemed about as appealing as sliding down a banister of razor blades and landing in a pool of alcohol.   You see, I hate working out.  Don't get me wrong, I like to be active; I just don't like running and going absolutely nowhere...i.e. on a treadmill or the elliptical machine.  And I hate lifting weights. 

"I don't know..." I began.

"If you don't want to work out together," he said, "I will do my own thing, and you can do yours."

"Um...well I don't like to work out very long," I said, as images like this ran through my head:

"Perfect!" he said, "Neither do I. How long do you usually work out for?"

"Not more than a half hour," I replied.  "He is way too pumped up for this," I thought to myself.

"Great! Me too!  You look at your gym at work and if that doesn't work out we can do the one in Adel," he said. 

"Okay."  I said. 

I should probably note that I have eaten 3 Christmas cookies throughout writing this post.  Our workout will start after the holidays.  Wish me luck...I need it...