If you need me, I’ll be hiding in the pool.

It’s pretty much official, I’m too old for New Orleans. Or maybe I’m just out of practice.

I spent 4 fabulous full days there with friends, both old and new, at Mom 2.0 Summit. I went to some amazing sessions and heard some very powerful words from people in the blogosphere who influence myself and so many others. I had the best roomies ever, and except for an unfortunate incident involving baby powder, the terlet and a phone, we managed to stay out of trouble. World’s collided. Chef John Besh cooked and served me and some of my best girls a fabulous lunch, sponsored my a staple in my pantry, Zatarain’s. I met a guy from Community Coffee who was best friends in high school with the son of my old police chief. And I befriended a cabbie who was a native and remembered all the good things about the city before the storm came. I was in my element, and man did it feel good!

I also drank copious amounts of alcohol, ate way too much food, bought too much local art and danced and laughed with friends until the wee hours of the morning.

In short, I had a blast. And I am exhausted. My blood alcohol content probably still exceeds the legal limit.

I was in a city that I call home with people that I love. I never wanted it to end. My liver and my bank account begged to differ.

It took me hours to peel myself away. I stopped at all of my little haunts, took pictures, picked up real estate magazines, da paper, drove around. I begrudgingly made it back to my home now, in Alabama, and felt again like I had left a huge piece of me somewhere along the Gulf Coast that I love. All the way back I kept thinking, I am going too far from home. Stop. Stop. But when I got here and got my doggies, I felt ok again. For a while.

For four days I knew where I was and it felt like I belonged. And now, I’m drifting again.

But towards what?

I have an old friend in Louisiana who’s standard answer to “How are you?” has always been “Fat and sassy.” It always tickled me to hear him say that.

When someone asks me how I’m doing lately, I say “oh, I’m fine” when I really want to just mutter “ugh”. That’s pretty much how I’ve been feeling lately. I’ve let myself get fat. Again. And y’all know I’m still as sassy as ever.

I just can’t find the same motivation I had when I lost 60 pounds back in 2004. Mainly because he’s dead and sitting in an urn on my mantle. Well, most of him anyway.

2004? That was a lifetime ago for me.

My entire existence has changed, my metabolism has changed, I have changed. Back then I had a gym 5 minutes from home, friends to work out with, and a somewhat structured schedule that afforded me lots of time to exercise.

See those words I typed above?

EXCUSES.

I pass two exits with 24 hour fitness centers on my way to work. I belong to the gym here in town. An incline trainer sits behind me, needing only 4 bolts I could buy at one of my many trips to Lowe’s to make it work again. I know how to eat healthy, and I know that I MUST exercise in order to lose weight. I know that eating 5 or 6 twizzlers and drinking two glasses of wine at 10 pm after I did Zumba or walked several miles hours earlier is BAD BAD BAD. I’m physically not too terribly out of shape, but I’m out of my comfort zone, and I’m heavier than I want to be. I’ve reached my fat gal plateau and I’m ready to roll right off and land someplace between Plump Place and Skinny Town, USA. Especially when I have a closetful of clothes that I used to look fabulous in just waiting for me to put them in the sequel.

I’ve made the promise to myself to get back to where I was physically comfortable a few times since Gregory died, and I’ve broken it each time. Blame it on laziness, widowhood, grief, whatever, it has just been me and only me doing it. Some people claim that there’s a woman to blame.

That would be me.

By no means am I going to quit living life for every precious minute. I am not going to deprive myself of good food, good wine and good times, I’m just going to try and do it a wee bit less. And I know I my limitations and my expectations are realistic. I’m a big girl, always have been. The Trimble side of the family has large people in it, and I got those genes. I’m cool with that, but I’m tired of broken promises and broken buttons, tired of my own excuses. I’m an idiot for not yet seizing the opportunity I have with this move, a new place, a new town, to make myself new again. I haven’t been completely useless, I’ve lost a little weight, but not enough. I turned down a margarita AND Girl Scout cookies the other day people, so I’m trying! I’ve also cut down on the booze, and I’m trying to stop the snacks and the late night eating,and the quick fix of a drive-thru.

So today, completely out of character for me, I asked for help. I went to a doctor that monitors a program and your health and began that journey. My blood pressure, as usual, was normal – 122/76. My sugar, cholesterol and other indicators were fine. I’m 5-10 and hell no I’m not going to tell you what I weigh, but I am definitely overweight. As the doctor said, I carry it well because of my frame, but I am not interested in “carrying it well”. I want to fling it around fabulously while flames shoot out of my butt and my tiger blood boils. Yep, I just used a Sheenism.

I also got my bike back in shape, put the carrying rack on my jeep, signed up for spring softball, and put my kayak back in the water. Now I just have to put it into motion. At last.

A friend of mine posted something a few days ago that I LOVE and am going to use as one of many tools to motivate my slacker self.

No more excuses. Well, not that many. Heh.

The train to Kimtastic is once again boarding, help me make sure I stay on track, won’t you please?