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04.16.2003 - 8:07 p.m.


I have these capri pants that I bought back in, I don't know, 1999 or so. They are not the sort that are in style now, they're cut just below the knee rather than a few inches above the ankle. They are made of something syntheticy - skin tight and stretchy.

I wore these pants once when I picked JB up at an airport. I was killing time in the bar, because how can you pass up those overpriced shitty drinks, and some random man came over and sleazed, "Say, what do you call those pants?"

"Space pants, baby," I said, tossing back my Manhattan and blowing a perfect smoke ring his way. "Because my ass is outta this world."


No, I don't remember what the hell I said. I do however remember working those pants, you know? I looked, and I don't say this sort of thing often, GOOD in those pants.

Well, the years have Not Been Kind, or at least they Haven't Been As Kind As They Have Been To, Say, Nicole Kidman, and those pants haven't fit in quite a while.

I keep them because, ladies, you know what I'm talking about, they are that one article of clothing that I use as a weight gauge. I lose a few pounds, I try on The Pants.

I'm saying, I tried them on tonight and they almost fit. I can zip them up, and wear them without doing that extended inhale thing,…but I wouldn't quite try sitting in them yet. Or, I don't know, drinking a glass of water.

My goal with Daruma-san was to get to 125 pounds. I've lost some weight, but I know I've gained a lot of muscle - I can see it. In my legs, my arms, my back. Today on the scale (mid-day, fully clothed, after lunch) I weighed 136.

I still want to get in better shape, but maybe my goal will eventually be more related to the Grey Outdated No Longer In Style Pants than a specific poundage. We'll see.

On a related note, I went to my Body Pump class last night and we had a new teacher, who apparently is going to replace the old one permanently. Which bums me out, because the new one is like Perky McStewardess, and I didn't cotton to her one bit.

(I just thought I'd toss out a southern colloquialism for shits and grins. Don't gitcher panties in a bunch about it.)

There seem to be two types of group fitness teachers. Type A, the type I love, are drill sergeants. They've got a tough love thing going where they work really hard to motivate you but they also ream you senseless. They yell. They rip you a new asshole and at the end of the class you thank them for it.

Type B are ex-cheerleading captains. They have giant cheesy smiles on their faces. They squeak things like "Hey hey hey! Let's woooorrrrrk!" Ready? O,K!

My kickboxing instructor is totally a Type A. I swear she is so fucking awesome. I can be on the verge of barfing up everything I've ever eaten EVER, soaked in sweat from head to toe, gasping for breath so hard my lungs are making a little eeeee sound, and when she says "Go! One! More! Time!" I don't even think about quitting, I Just Do It.

So, working out, watching the food intake, drinking Amstel Light instead of Bridgeport India Pale Ale. It's all good. Progress is being made. Slowly, but - hopefully - surely.

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I have moved. - 1.03.2005
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