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04.26.2003 - 1:53 p.m.

Saturday

I went to kickboxing this morning, a feat I am feeling very proud of. I had one of those mornings where you just want to lounge in bed until noon, plus I was feeling a bit ashamed of having eaten not one, but two largish bowls of veggie chow mein while watching not one, but two episodes of MTV's "True Life" last night ("I Had Breast Surgery" and "I'm Getting Married" - equally enthralling in a unappetizing sort of way).

I had a good workout. It helped that there were a bunch of new people in class - I can't help it, I love seeing people crap out before I do. I think I've moved up a rung in the class hierarchy: somewhere above the first timers whose horrified expressions indicate they had no idea it was going to be so fucking hard, yet somewhere below that damn girl up in the front who can execute an enviable Jet-Li-esque back kick and who apparently does not require oxygen or water unlike gaspy, slurpy me.

I can see changes in my body; muscles that weren't there before, body parts that have a little less fat than before. It's encouraging, you know - Progress Is Being Made. I don't know, though, how noticeable the changes are to other people. JB doesn't count, that poor fucker has me peppering him with questions like every day.

"Do I look better? Can you tell I lost weight? What about my ass? Feel it, is it less jiggly? LOOK AT MEEEEEE."

It's not really fishing, it's more like hostage-torturing for compliments.

But secretly, I have this deep need for one specific person to make a comment. It's someone who has intimate knowledge of me, whose hands have manipulated every non-bathing-suit area of my body. I'm talking about Val, Workplace masseuse.

Every week I have a full body massage - we're talking totally naked, deep tissue, the works. She is contact with every muscle I have, practically. I just keep sort of hoping she'll make some exclamation during our session. Like "Wow, you've really been working out. I can tell."

Yesterday I had a massage. And when she was working on my left leg, she paused. "Whoah," she said.

"Yes?" I eagerly responded, muffled by the head rest. "What is it?"

"You have a rilly big bruise on your thigh. Wow, that must have hurt," Val clucked, and started on my right leg.

Hmph.

Oh well. The important thing is that I'm feeling better about myself, me me me, and that's good because today I'm doing some clothes shopping. Our vacation is right around the corner - next Saturday we take off on our Mexican cruise, and do you know what they subject you to on cruises? "Formal" nights. Two of them, in this case. It's where you're expected to dress up for dinner. I'm guessing Old Navy won't cut it, so I need to find something a bit more suitable.

God knows I'll need every shred of self-confidence I can muster to endure trying on evening-fucking-wear. The last time I wore a dress, it was at a damn wedding. MY wedding.

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