Anyone with shares in Robert Mondavi, or the Pinot Grigio crop of 2005 should be rejoicing after last week's gathering of comfortably-heeled Havenot hens. The fact that I showed up at such an event was totally out of character – having always preferred hangin' with "the guys" and swiggin' from a bottle of Chateau Crude de Noncommittal – a lively blend with hints of mischief and an undertone of reckless abandon. The fact that I was one of the last to leave, was no surprise.
By choice, I don't get out much – so when I peck my way out of coop, it's like Lesbian Bipolar Prison Break. And wading into that particular sea of familiar X chromosomes was rather pleasant. Like swimming though your own pee in a freezing cold lake.
Of course, there were snacks. Dim lighting. Cocktail napkins with cheeky jokes on them. Guest towels. And it was fun to hoist a glass with women I rarely see outside of the grocery store, the rink, or driving by – screeching at their own kids from behind the wheel of a minivan. And while we may not hang out or chat on a regular basis – we all have age, professions, and motherhood in common. Juggling acts that often go unappreciated except among peers. And by the looks of things, we can all guzzle our share of "mommy juice" when handed a hall pass.
What really struck me about the group as a whole was – they were all beautiful. Fit. Sexy. Funny. Wise. They also all had a voice – independent thinkers who hadn't been assimilated into their partners' personalities. (That voice was loud! Once the wine started flowing you could barely hear yourself speak.) And for the most part, they all seem pretty happy – even the ones battling sore hips, cancer, ill parents, divorce, and/or asshole teenagers – all the usual shit life throws under your bus.
Eyes look better with a few crinkly laugh lines.
I was particularly interested in seeing two of the party goers. Both women had recently transformed their eating habits, and their bodies – and I was anxious to see if they'd stuck with it. In truth, part of me was hoping to see them all puffed up like Adele, scarfing back cheese balls like Henry the VIII.
Like me.
Fact is, they were both radiant, goddammit. And as I stood there in my 'good sweats' admiring their cute clothes – I knew it was time to stop blaming my age, my schedule, genetics, and my recently diagnosed hypoactive thyroid – and get back on the horse of fucking misery, and ride.
Diet time.
Looking back, I haven't been on a "program" since January 2010. At that time, I did it as a joke – to give me something to bitch about – and to prove it couldn't be done. Boy, was I wrong. With the help of Halifax fitness and nutrition guru, Glenn Faltenhine of Healthy Halifax, I not only managed to lose a chunk of me – I actually enjoyed it. High protein, low carbs, and no booze. No cheesies. No picking fries off the Little Bastard's plate. No chunks of cheese on salty crackers. No carrot cake. No booze... did I mention that?
My apologies to anyone with shares in Argentinian Malbec crops.
So here I go again – only this time I have a buddy. A like-minded hen who's also lost her strut. We have a proven-succesful program, a goal, and a mandatory weekly weigh-in and all the humiliation that goes with that.
Hey, maybe I'll head down to Thornbloom's Annual White Sale and pick up some incentives... like some sexy new bedding. Or a salad bowl.
What have I got to lose?
halifaxbroad@gmail.com
