A year ago last spring, I was on a health kick.  Exercising regularly, eating well, and keeping strict accounts of my portions led to a nice weight loss.  I felt so good, and more vital than I had in years.  Surely, the hard part was over.  Not so fast,  my little cream puff.   Over the intervening 16 months or so, my resolve has gotten, shall we say, “squidgy” around the edges.  It started innocently enough.  I started having excuses for not exercising that day, giving me more time to snack, which gave me less time to do all that pesky recording.  At first, the scale didn’t budge.  I would be the first person in the history of the world to cheat the irritating rules of intake and output when it came to maintaining weight and fitness.  That was just fine with me.

Which is why I’m panting here, on an elliptical trainer next to my husband, feeling my toes go numb.  Grace did not cover me sufficiently  in the weight and fitness department — apparently checking the box once was not good enough.   We finally went back to our local YMCA and joined for the third (or was it the fourth) time.  How unfair is this?  When I think about it, so much in my life requires ongoing maintenance and effort, be it prayer, fitness, housekeeping, pulling weeds, or playing the violin.  I’m sure there’s a life lesson in here somewhere, but I’m too busy panting and sweating right now to think of what that might be.