I hate you, Leslie

It's 41 degrees outside and I am wearing a lightweight summer shift, bare legs and flipflops and I am on my way to the doctor.  The inappropriate clothing is necessary because when I am called back by the nurse she will insist I step on the scale and the flipflops can be easily discarded, too bad the dress can't as well.  And look at that,  I gained five pounds in the twenty days since I have last been here. "Good," says doc, "the weight gain is good, you were too small."  Hmmph, I bet he doesn't get to say that too often judging by the immensity of the company sitting in his waiting room. "It'll be gone the next time you see me," I say scornfully.  Five pounds is a pants size and my Liz Claiborne jeans sit idly in the dresser drawer and I am wearing  sweats with elastic bands. But those Claibornes run small, don't they, oh how we delude ourselves.

I have been sick these last three weeks and this has caused a major interruption in my exercise routine.  My eating habits never change but inertia breeds inertia and it has been easier sitting on the couch feeling sorry for myself and eating chocolate-covered peanuts than taking my feverish, wheezing body to the pool.  But now I need to move again, do the power walks listening to Jesus Christ Superstar on the ipod (I truly am odd and surely you knew that) and those goddamn Leslie Sansone exercise DVDs.  God, I hate that woman, she is perky and laughs too much at her own inane jokes with her mouth wide open and she's a biblethumper to boot. Who needs biblical quotations when I'm sweating through her prescribed lunges?  I comfort myself knowing she has chunky thighs and those black bell-bottomed sweats DON'T HIDE THAT FACT, LESLIE.  She gets me moving, easy on the joints,  I'll give her that, but I still yell obscenities while I'm doing her dance.