I missed the fitness craze of the late 1970s and early 1980s. I don’t think I’ve ever owned a velour jogging suit. (My Seventh Grade swim coach was real proud of his, until we threw him into the deep end of the pool wearing it.) During the Flashdance years, I looked good in leg warmers, but only dancers used them for anything but a fashion statement. Olivia Newton John’s “Let’s Get Physical” wasn’t fooling anyone - it was a make-out song, not a work-out song.

Lucky for me, I’ve never done the yo-yo diet. That’s the one where you can eat anything you want, so long as you eat it standing on one foot while keeping a yo-yo in motion. This results in a very limber middle finger, but you gain the weight back just as soon as you give up and donate the yo-yo to your favorite ten year old. Next time you see someone raise a middle finger to you on the highway, raise yours right back - let them know you recognize them for the yo-yo they are.

I signed up for this free diet and fitness site, SparkPeople (http://www.sparkpeople.com), back in January. (If you go there, tell ‘em HEALTHYWRITER sent you.) January is the month of resolutions, when fully 79% of all Hell’s paving stones are carefully manufactured. I once made the perfect resolution: to make no more stupid New Year’s resolutions I had no intention of keeping. I couldn’t even keep that one.

Hey, I look okay. I feel good. I have absolutely no need or desire to climb sixteen flights of stairs or run a Marathon. But on the flight to Pennsylvania for the Writing.Com Convention, I realized that I was only two tenths of an inch away from having to wedge my hips into an airline seat with a shoehorn. And on an earlier trip with my family, my husband and I rubbed shoulders and fought for armrest space for three and a half hours. “Does this qualify us for the Mile High Club?” I asked. We decided it must. No one should have to suffer such intimacy with total strangers.

Time to get serious about shedding the fluff. I reviewed the goals I set for myself - publicly, no less, in a BLOG - back in November 2005. NaNoWriMo has a similar effect on me to New Year’s Day - I am possessed by enthusiasm and good intentions. I really ought to be locked in a padded cell during November and January, to keep me from hurting myself.

Okaaaaaaay…can I just say now how much I hate exercise? Not really - I hate the idea of it, more than the actual act of it. Takes a while to work up to the exercise bike, you know?

"Hi, bike. How ya doin', bike? Niiiice bike..."

It's not like I've got a rabid dog in the bedroom, eh? And seeing as how the bike is in the bedroom, exercise doesn't involve the perfect workout clothes - in fact, come to think of it, it's entirely clothing-optional. After having my ten-year-old remind me how to operate and program the thing, I climbed aboard. "Hmm...six minutes sounds...reasonable."

Six minutes later, my heart rate had exceeded the target maximum and I'd burned all of 25 calories. "You suck," I muttered. At the bike, of course. I'm fantabulous. I added another six minutes. I mean, heart rate and miserable caloric burn aside, I'd barely broken a sweat.

"Hey, this isn't so bad." I was averaging 18.5 miles an hour. With one or two lousy resistance bars, mind you - it was all downhill. But never mind that - the calorie count was still ticking upwards. Out of sheer boredom, I started calculating how long it would take to burn off a Snickers bar.

I'm now on the all-lettuce diet. After all, there are only 24 hours in a day.

Starting last week, I'm on four days of cardio and three days of strength and conditioning (alternating days on the latter). Despite having a fairly well-equipped home gym, I’m doing this at the fitness center. The guidance (and accountability) of having a personal trainer really help keep me on track and reassure me that I'm doing it "right."

Patience is not one of my virtues; I want results and I want them now. How I got through nine months of pregnancy - twice - I'll never know. I'm sure I dreamed and fantasized about gestational microwave ovens, or something. But then my 85-year-old father-in-law informed me that he's been watching and following my diet, eating more like I do. He really hasn't had a choice, at dinner, but apparently he's been mirroring me for breakfast and lunch, as well. (I think there’s a subtle compliment in there, somewhere.) Instead of a sandwich for breakfast, he's been having one or two pieces of fruit. He's been eating smaller portions at dinner, and including more fresh fruit and veggies. I've been concentrating on making sure I'm reasonably satisfied and eating healthy (within a calorie range, but it's been around 1400/day). It's not "low sodium," but it's probably "lower sodium" than what any of us are used to. The end result? Besides my craving a salt lick? In three weeks, my father in law dropped 10 pounds! His ankles are less swollen, and he’s regular as clockwork (for which he alternates between calling me “Doctor” and “G-d”). In case you’re interested, the secret to my “phenomenal cosmic powers” is fiber. Most of us just don’t get enough of it.

Oh, and within a week, I did see progress: My jeans started dragging on the ground. Uh oh, I thought. Better back off the leg press - my legs are getting shorter! Turns out I’d lost 5 pounds, dropped 1% body fat, and lost more than an inch off my waist.

My favorite piece of fitness equipment, at the moment, is my new mp3 player. If every little bit of activity burns calories and adds up, then dancing around the house like a complete dork to bouncy tunes like “Iko, Iko,” “My Humps,” and “The Time Warp” has to count for something! It's going to be deadly on that treadmill, though - coupled with my compulsive urge to dance on the darned thing. I am visualizing that the same way I did hanging upside down on a parasail - only the parasailing guys okayed my madness, even cheerfully dunking me head-first into the Atlantic Ocean. I just don't see 24 Hour Fitness going along with that kind of insanity (in fact, my personal trainer, Bernard, begged me not to) - not sure they have a liability release that covers that, beyond a promise to kick me right out the front door if I try it.

Not that I'm the only one who ever thought of this, mind you: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=92IWqopETfI

Now that's what I'm talkin' about. J.J.'s offered to buy a treadmill so I can bust a move and bust my ass, but I swear - one more piece of equipment in our house, we will have to start selling private gym memberships!!

Robert Waltz

"Master of the [pun] form," huh? You give me too much credit - but I got a charge from seeing two of my stories in your newsletter. Some new readers have discovered them and checked them out. I am in your debt.

Mavis Moog

My husband and I are both fairly fluent in French, but it takes a moment to adjust, usually about three days, to get it really smooth. Imagine our horror when Nick's (my husband's) boss, at a conference in Birmingham, England, introduced us to a chief buyer from France with the words, "They're interested in medieaval French opera too."

LovelyOne

I agree with the need for vulnerability in your writing. It is that open and honest emotional connection between writer and reader that will keep your fans coming back for more. I always like to put a piece of my living heart into my work; whether it is an essay, a poem, an adage, or a story. Irrespective of the genre or topic, pretty much everything I write reflects some portion of my mental or emotional life. I try not to write unless I can find at least some small way to invest myself in the composition.