So, I have a little problem.
It seems…I’m a slug—an OMG-will-she-ever-make-it-up-the-stairs kind of slug. I blame it on writing, of course. And that’s never going away. So, my slugness feels rather hopeless.
And to make me feel slightly more sluggish? These guys are my friends.
Meet Aurora. She’s super fit and beautiful and feeds me stuff like hummus and green weeds with pine nuts. Au likes to make special pizzas with green stuff on it. No, not that green stuff, you junkie. Other green stuff, which somehow tastes good and not like rabbit food when it comes out of Au’s kitchen.
I heard a rumor she’s actually 72, even though everyone thinks she’s in her mid twenties, so she must be doing something right. But if you’re looking for a green-stuff pizza recipe, you’ll have to e-mail her. Because I don’t have it. For one thing, you can’t fry it.
And here’s her husband, Scott. Scott’s mega fit with abs that put even wolfie Jacob to shame.
Go ahead. Take a moment to wipe the drool off your chin.
Scott has a fitness blog, which is pretty amazing. So if you’re looking for inspiration and motivation to get more fit, make sure you stop by his blog. I also have Scott to thank for teaching me all about motorcycles for one of my books. Yes, he took me for a ride on his motorcycle. And yes—you should probably be jealous. If he weren’t like a brother to me, I’d be jealous of me, too.
Ophie’s tried to get me to exchange my Coke Zero and amaretto OTR for Shakeology drinks, because apparently yummy, chocolatey vitamin shakes are better for me.
What she doesn’t know is that I keep a mini fridge just full of soda in my office. But come on, I shouldn’t have to go down the stairs every time I want a drink. That would make me too tired to write.
Now, here’s me in Ophie’s Turbokick class.
I know, right? Can you see me shaking? Can you see the fear in my eyes?
That class kicked my arse, by the way. And just when I thought I’d die, Ophie said, “Now time for Round Two!” And there were 3 rounds. OMeffingG. I suck.
No, I don’t see any correlation between slugness and a mini fridge full of carbonated aspertame. Surely, there can’t be. *cough*
But prepare to feel REALLY sorry for me.
Now here’s my arm.
Yeah. I know.
Check out my sweetie peetie friend Michele. She’s like, “Wait. I think I see it. If I squint just so.”
So yeah, I’ve come to realize I’m squishy marshmallow cream in the midst of hard cookies. AHHHHHHHH!*
Now, before you jump to conclusions, I am not paying these people to be friends with me. For some reason, they keep me around. And they don’t even try to make me do push-ups or anything. But you know what’s truly amazing about these guys? They all have jobs, children, lives. And they’re all freakishly positive and happy all the time. Pretty inspirational, really.
And Holly? She has Multiple Sclerosis. And in addition to working her arse off in preparation for this fitness competition and her Beachbody coaching, she’s published a book of poetry called Finding Me and is currently working on another. And she’s donating a portion of the profits from the sale of her book to research aimed at fighting MS. (Go check out her book. You won’t regret it.)
Now, the question is, why am I still a slug?I’m busy, sure, but so are they. So…hm. Maybe you shouldn’t feel so sorry for me, I guess. Slugness has been a choice. Like, I choose to write pretty much always over health.
I’ve decided, I’m tired of being the marshmallow. And I’m afraid my hard cookie friends will start poking me in the tummy to see if I giggle**. So here’s what I’m gonna do about it. This week, I’m taking up running (stop looking at me like that), and my daughter (who’s a runner) has committed to help me—after she said to me, “You know, Mom: running is really hard. Like on your heart and stuff. Are you sure?”
I figure this will help me feel better about myself, AND it will help me to look like this by the time SCBWI LA rolls around in July (don’t look at me like that).
Can’t hurt, right? Plus, I could adopt the pen name: Carol of Sparta. Way cool.
So, yeah. If you don’t hear from me, it’s because I’m too busy changing my slug ways. Or maybe I’m dead or something.
P.S. You can feel a little sorry for me. Because as much as it stinks to be a marshmallow, it’s even harder to try not to be.
*Sometimes, I like to use ironic metaphors.
**They are way too nice to do this. This is me in full insecurity mode. Don’t look at me like that.