Thinking Thin

Got a surprisingly warm (if characteristically cheeky) email from a long lost, world traveling misanthrope friend the other day (from the New Orleans days--found me on facebook) congratulating me on not getting fat. That, apparently, has been the fate of many of the women he knew in his former life back in the States. Yes, I’m delighted to say that the last of the baby weight seems to have come off—and then some. This presents the unexpected negative that most of my trousers (word choice carefully introduced to avoid offending my UK readership) look like shit on me. I suppose there are worse problems to have. I should note, however, that my failure to incorporate purposeful exercise into my routine has left me pretty flabby. This, along with proliferating varicose veins, cadaver-like skin tone on the lower half of my body and infrequent waxing, has left me rather bikini-phobic despite being back in a size eight.

Like most of us gals, I’ve spent a lot of time preoccupied with my weight, from the freshman twenty to a borderline eating disorder in my early twenties, until finally arriving at something approaching healthy moderation. Lately, my approach has been just not to think about it, which seems to be working. There's also the fact that(although I sometimes feel it’s gonna drive me to drinking) parenthood has, in fact, cut down on my alcohol consumption big time.

My exercise routine, which in the past has varied from running five miles a day to stimulants and techno, now consists mostly of chasing after my preschooler and the occasional home yoga practice. I just started a once a week pilates class (my first ever) in hopes of overcoming my weakling status. And then there’s tennis…