At night, while the news reports/political shows are on television (400 channels, not much to watch), I read articles from Drippler and Feedly and FlipBoard. Many of them say that a catchy headline has to have a number in it, like 10 Ways to Curl Your Cat’s Hair or 4 new uses for a B.o.B (Battery operated Boyfriend). For the next week, that’s what I’m going to do with my blog titles.

I came across this photo today and reminisced about being young, when life was simple. It was probably taken in grade 11 or 12. I think my girlfriend’s mother sewed part of the uniform. The hard plastic shako was heavy and after marching in the heat for a few hours, your hair would resemble a sweating nest.

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I was Colour Guard Captain in the Majestics (Denis Morris) Drum Corps. Before that, I’d mastered acrobatic drills, tossing around a 5-pound rifle with a hefty wooden stock and a plugged barrel, all the while marching in time with the drumline and horns as we did maneuvers along the street.

I still have the thickened knuckles from banging my hands so many times. But I learned to flip that thing into the air and catch it without cracking my skull. But damn, when we got our sequences right, it was awesome.

Ah, those were the days. Skinny, innocent, unworried about anything too serious, getting into having a sort-of boyfriend and learning about ‘parking’ to watch the ‘submarine races’ by lock 2 of the Welland Canal, necking and petting and steaming up the windows of his dad’s Corvair, but mainly focused on getting good grades, learning to inhale purloined Export As without coughing out a lung and most memorable of all, hanging out with my bestie, Jess.

Those were the days of innocence. Before fear of failure, intense roller-coaster relationships, children, jobs, houses, cars – all of the sometimes burdensome responsibilities of being a grown-up.

Now, I think about keeping in shape so I won’t become a creaky old broad full of aches and pains. I roll out of bed five mornings out of seven, flip open my iPad and do a session of DRP Yoga. The Red Hot Abs sessions are paying off.

I feel the difference in my body, although I’ve only lost a couple of pounds. My flexibility is crappy, though, so I have lots of goals still to reach, like holding onto my big toe and stretching my leg out in front of my body without falling down. Or holding a proper plank position for more than a count of ten. When I think that I used to be an athlete, I momentarily regret ‘letting myself go’.

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The thing is, exercise makes me hungry. I don’t understand those folks who say working out takes away their appetite. Damn – happy, sad, cold, hot – the environment doesn’t matter. I remember being in second stage labour with my daughter (she was born at 1:40 p.m.) and asking the nurse where was my lunch, because I was ravenous. She handed me a paper cup of grape Jello. I threw it in the sink. I wanted a hamburger.

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So I think about food. Troll websites and Pinterest. Collect recipes (healthy and not-so-healthy) using Evernote and Pepperplate.

I’ve been trying to do without dairy and carbs, but it’s a losing battle. After a few days of steamed vegetables and chicken breast (how creative can you get after umpteen-thousand meals?) I get like the fairy godmother in Shrek and crave something deep-fried or dipped in chocolate.

Luckily, Hub has a craving for pizza (our resistance levels are, thankfully, in sync), so I’ll walk up to our local grocery store and buy a package of fresh basil. I’ve thrown together a recipe for garlic dough, and it’s rising slowly on the counter. I’ll saute some onions and more garlic in tomato sauce then top it with mozzarellisima, black olives, caramelized onions and spicy salami and we’ll have it for dinner, along with a glass of red wine.


Doesn’t that look g-o-o-o-od? Hot, steamy, cheesey, meaty goodness. Gluten free? Absolutely not (today). What the heck. I’m a grownup. I can eat what I want (once in a while).