I used to have a friend named Jerene Facey a couple life times ago. Palauan American, stubborn, and solid as a fucking rock.

We grew up in concentric social circles, and then finally collided the last time I went back to Saipan.

Why the sudden nostalgia? That girl was obsessive about working out. Familiar with the rumors of L. Lo and N. Rit in competition to see who could look the most skeletal? We were like that, except it was who could be the most ripped. Suffice it to say that she beat me hands down, but I got in damn good shape while competing with her.

You know what her secret was?

She wore workout clothes a size too small. That's motherfucking genius right there. And I'm not talking about any spandex, either. Stretchless fabric.

Fuck the pills and the diets. There is nothing more motivating than trying to complete any type of physical activity while your ass is sausaged into 1 size below what you're comfortable in.

Right now, dh is my workout partner. And much as I adore the man, he loses weight when he does not work out. He of the freak metabolism, that man. I, well, I just sag. All over. I don't want to be saggy and sausage at the gym next to His LEAN-NESS. That would be too humiliating, right there.

So what am I doing here, am I making a late New Year's Resolution? I don't know. I half expected that thirty would be the year that I would be in the best shape of my life, ever.

Trying on half the bras in Victoria's Secret and realizing that HOLY SHIT they're not going to be in the upper perimeter of my chest forever and that I better start working out stat to firm that shit up slapped me in the face FULL AND HARD this Christmas. We must, we must, we must firm up our bust, mustn't we?

And can somebody please tell me a good exercise for that little piece of fat that pops out over the bra? Momma said that looser bras gave me a better backline, too, which I took to translate as "back fat" as well. Pointers?

I've long since thrown out any clothes that I deemed "too small", so the Jerene Facey New Work Out Plan is going to have to undergo some renovations. Maybe I could just have my jaw wired shut?

I can see myself now, motioning furiously to dh to blend the pralines with milk before putting the puree into my sippy cup. Or straw. Or however that works. And that would be so "The Real World" Chicago, or wherever the hell it was when Tammy did that. Translation: Not Cool.

I did have a friend that ate Papaya until her hands took on an orangeish tint. AH. TRACK. TIVE.

I'm too damn hungry to adopt the eating disorder dujour, so guess I'll just have to drag my 30 year old saggy ass to the gym. I'll call you in 10 months. I'm off to watch "The Biggest Loser" and pine away for a personal trainer.

Betty? You were right. IT was his shoes. You must be psychic! Where will I be in 10 years? Or next year? Quick! Make something up!