Okay, Internet.  This is it.  This is the real deal.  See, I’m going to a concert Friday night with three friends.  I will be the fat chick in the group.  By, oh, 90 pounds or so.  Honestly.  They’re all, like, waifs.  I swanee.  I gave one of them a pair of work out pants I had that shrunk to miniscule in the wash and they fit her.  Kid you not.

(Um…why do I have so many SKINNY friends??? (and, yes, I’m looking at you.  And you.  And most definitely YOU.))

I went this morning to a trial session at a local 1-on-1 personal training facility I saw advertised on “The Biggest Loser.”  I went and got my ass kicked by this woman who is perhaps the closest thing to Jillian I’m going to find in the Greater Carolina Area.  And you know what?  Right now, I feel like I could go out there and pick up the badly parked minivan that I nearly hit while trying to get in the garage.  I feel amazing.  Tomorrow, I will be sore, but I’m actually looking forward to it.  Soreness is a sign of progress, is it not?

Anyway, so I’ve signed up.  Three days a week.  Costs an arm and a leg in a horrendous economy, but, you know what?  If I don’t do this soon - if I don’t do this now - it won’t matter if I’ve saved money because I simply won’t be here to spend it.  Between that and Weight Watchers, I am determined.  I will waver, I am sure, but I am trying to surround myself with a support system that will not let me give up.  I want this so badly I can taste it.  I can smell it. 

So there you have it.  I’ve gone and got myself a personal trainer.  Again.  Hello, deja vu.  Have a seat.  You can have the radicchio and carrots I just picked out of my salad. 

Fasten your seatbelts.  It might well be a bumpy ride.  Especially if I have to give up Hershey bars.