Listen up, Pounds,
I knew you would show up – it was inevitable. Throughout my life, you have come and gone as you have pleased, but The Big Trip in particular has been made of conditions favorable to you: travel, friends, 4,000 miles of sitting, delicious food, celebratory drink, and a complete and utter lack of routine or discipline. A few of you were welcome for a little while, but now? Really, Pounds? There are too many of you.

You have taken up residence wherever you have seen fit: a little here in the thigh, a little there in the waist. You never asked if I welcomed your company; you simply arrived, and then invited your friends. You have been sneaky – never fully crowding me out of my clothes, but just making them fit differently. And I did not pay a ridiculously high price for jeans only to have them optimistically tugged and stretched.

I have always had a love/hate relationship with you. With one halting hand at the end of a stiff arm, and the other beckoning you to come hither, obviously you may have been confused. I have sent you mixed messages, and for this, I apologize.

But how could I have acted any other way? How could I ever resist you? You have come cloaked in chocolately-fried-goodness, and have been effortlessly washed down in a deluge of red wine. We have had a love affair every night for weeks, but I have been dumbfounded and irritated to find you still at my side (and on my side) the morning after. You are annoying. You cramp my style. I do not want to share my young, single, glamorous existence with your vexatious kind. Get out of my bed, and off of my body.

Sorry, Pounds. It was fun while it lasted, but your day is over. I will destroy you with an arsenal of aerobic activity. One or two of you can stay, but the rest of you: prepare to perish.

See ya, wouldn’t wanna be ya,
Annie

Stage 1: SHOCK
Whaaaaa…????

Stage 2: DENIAL
That did not just happen. No. It did not. [plugs ears] La la la la la – I can’t hear you. This is not real.

Stage 3: ANGER
[furrows brow] Stupid man. Stupid man in his house. He should clean up this sidewalk – yeah, that’s right, get out his LEAF BLOWER and earn his keep. I loathe this tree. How dare it drop it’s leaves on my path? And the imbecile who thought up concrete? For sidewalks? I HATE HIM I HATE HIM I HATE HIM. Who invented Seattle, anyway? This is all his fault.

Stage 4: DESPAIR
[lower lip sticks out in a pout] This sucks. This totally sucks. Everyone saw, and I am such a loser. I will NEVER be cool. And the sludge? All over everything? My life is in shambles.

And I’ll probably never have a boyfriend, either.

Stage 5: ACCEPTANCE
Yes. I just slipped on the sidewalk, doing nothing but walking and breathing air. My entire body fell to the ground. That car full of people saw… and that one, too. I quickly stood up, looking around like nothing had happened, but the mud splatter up my leg is a dead giveaway. It’s okay. Things like this happen. Thank God for washing machines and anonymity.

- – - – - – - -

Welcome to Seattle, where the mosaic of wet autumn leaves has slicked the sidewalk, making a simple path impassable. I suppose that the winsome days of fall have their price – unfortunately, my sweats and self-esteem were this morning’s casualties.

Being back here in Seattle is wonderful and serene. But I am happy to report that my sadness at no longer living in Seattle is outweighed by my absolute excitement to move to Nashville.

I am on the right path. Even when it’s covered in slippery, wet leaves.

There was once a time that I thought of myself as strong. But I have met my match, in the form of the new agey, sizzling activity known as HOT YOGA.

I am a 5′8″ cardio addict and gym rat. Walking, running, elliptical training, hiking, biking, kick boxing… you name it, I love it. When it comes to aerboic activity, I am confident and gung-ho. However, something has been missing from my workout routine – a little something known as “strength training.”

After having it recommended to me subsequently by my friends Mary, Matt, and Blake, I decided to give hot yoga a shot this afternoon. In case you haven’t heard of it, hot yoga is yoga (all those freaky bendy poses) in a 105 degree, 40% humidity, swelter-chamber. Never having done any yoga before, let alone hot yoga, it would be baptismal by sweat for me. Luckily, I was feeling adventurous, and so I showed up in my shorts and tank top, ready to take on anything.

And I was put through 90-minutes of absolute slogging.

Let me let you in on a little secret about Annie: I like to be in control AT ALL TIMES. I prefer situations for which I can plan ahead, dress appropriately, look cute the whole time, not draw any undesired attention to myself, and always, always succeed. But today, hot yoga shattered that calm, composed version of myself. I did not know that my body could sweat so much; I was unaware that eyelids and ear lobes and ankles and fingers were capable of perspiration. My body was twisted and stretched into bizarre contortions, worked over until every limb was shaking – nay, trembling – from fatigue. My ass has never been so kicked.

And just like that, I am hooked.

Ironically, the reason that I loved the experience so much? The mirrors. For a girl with pretty significant body image issues, I would have thought that an hour and a half of watching myself bend and shake and stretch and grimace – in short, confront my physical limitations – would be just about as appealing as having toothpicks shoved underneath my toenails. But I was shocked and amazed to discover that the opposite was true. Yes, at times I felt weak and inadequate – but simultaneously, I felt strong and amazed at what my body is capable of. Beneath the lacquer of sweat, I watched my muscles in action.

And wonder of wonders, I never once criticized the image in the mirror.

And that is reason enough to return.

The Honda is on the fritz again.

Recently, I walked out of my apartment to the sight of the tailpipe hanging precariously off of the muffler. One little tap of my toe, and the tip of the pipe went clattering to the asphalt, effectively circumcising my car. And here, all along I thought she was a girl.

After an initial inspection, the kind men at Dr. Don’s Automotive told me that the muffler is “rusting out.” Also, it “needs a left front wheel bearing,” and the “right front shock is leaking.” I no speaka mechanic, but I do understand that these things are NOT GOOD, and if I choose to drive despite these warnings, I am literally in serious danger of a wheel “falling off.”

So while I wait for the day when I can get my car into the shop, I am on foot, traipsing from Ballard to the U-District to Fremont to North Seattle. On Monday, I walked 6 miles, and then ran 3. Yesterday, I walked 8. This morning, I have already logged 3.5, and have another 3 ahead of me this afternoon. On Friday, I will drop off my car in Ballard, and then hoof the 6 miles to Shoreline.

I have had many offers for rides, but to be honest, I like to walk. In the days before cars, people walked everywhere, and as a result, had hours upon hours to think. And in all of the thinking that I’ve been doing, the best thought I have had is this:

If things can be “discombobulated,” why can’t they be “combobulated,” or even just “bobulated”?

First of all, I would like to thank God for creating bodies and physical activities. I could not have done this without you.

I need to thank my dear mother, first and foremost for giving birth to me, and secondly, for recently gifting me with some high-quality wicking shirts and shorts. It made this entire morning so much more enjoyable.

Anna, at Road Runner Sports, for fitting me with my new Adidas, and convincing me that the Super Feet insoles really are worth it. You’re the best!

Thank you to the pouring rain and mud, because no one wants to be the kid with the blindingly neon white shoes.

I can’t forget the Olmsted brothers, who had the original vision for designing Seattle city parks such as Green Lake.

My legs, my legs! I know that I had said such cruel things to you and about you in the past, and yet you remain loyal and reliable. I do not deserve you.

And finally, to the endorphines. You kicked in around mile 2, and stretched the 2.8 goal into a respectable 3.5, therefore convincing me that even after several months of hiatus, I’VE STILL GOT IT!

With the recent purchase of both new hiking boots AND new running shoes, I woke up this morning not sure which pair I should break in today. But then I remembered my CamelBak that was also waiting to be inaugurated, and since I love that oh-so-satisfactory click it makes when the mouthpiece magnetically sticks to the chest strap, my decision was made.

I drove to Mt. Si this morning, ready to conquer the mountain by myself. If hiking alone sounds like the beginnings of a bad nightly news story, you’re probably right. Even I had visions of a creepy man stepping from the woods onto the trail all Ethan-style, ready to whisk me to a shack in the woods to perform weird experiments on me. But luckily, Mt. Si is the equivalent of Green Lake on an incline, and so there were plenty of fellow hikers and trail dogs.

Given that three of my top five worst fears are a) falling from high heights, b) chipping a tooth in the process, and c) being eaten by a bear (and to be honest, I don’t know what the other top two fears would be – those three pretty well encompass my greatest fears), the outdoors might sound like the last place that I should spend time. And indeed: as a child, I was a lazy bum and the anti-outdoorsman (much to the chagrin of my hiker parents), preferring the comfort of my own bed and access to a VCR over dirt and pain (yes, dirt and pain). But in recent years, I have turned over a new leaf, and have been spending more and more time in the wilderness. Hiking, backpacking, camping, I do it all. And I even have the gear to prove it. I am strong and have endurance and don’t even have asthma attacks. I put the “active” in “attractive.”

Um. Right.

When I’m honest? Perfectly honest? My attitude toward the outdoors hasn’t exactly changed. I still cannot stand blackened toenails, sunburns, peeing in the woods, bugs and vermin. I hate feeling dirty, and that gross salty residue that is left behind after sweating. I hike not to commune with nature. I hike with high, futile hopes of my tush standing at attention.

And so this morning, I practically sprinted the 4-miles up the mountain, never letting anyone pass me, but me doing the passing. I was the passer in this operation. I broke a cardinal rule of those nature-loving hikers, and listened to my iPod the whole time – country songs about one-night stands (We ain’t done nothing wrong, we’ve just been lonely too long…). Even with my new boots, my left heel was ground into hamburger (that pesky size 8 foot), and required some serious tender-loving care at the summit.

But you know? The summit was beautiful. Thousands of feet higher than when I started, the clouds were rolling away like an ocean tide, and all was peaceful. And even as I killed the ants and threw rocks at the chipmunks to keep them away from my gouda and crackers, I was glad that I am a hiker. Maybe this nature thing isn’t too bad after all.