I proudly ran 1 mile today.  No, that was not a typo for the number 11.

Why workout if you’re only gonna do it for 15 minutes?  Mostly to be able to tell judgey people, “I workout,” or “I go to the gym,” without lying.  But also because I like earning my shower by sweating for fitness instead of sweating for sleeping, which happens pretty much every night for no apparent reason.

Certainly there must be a reason, you say.   This is true, it’s probably my hormones.  But owning this would rob my husband the luxury of asking if I'd “sweat the bed” each morning, as if it were a regressive childhood habit.  He loves giggling at my biological unpleasantries...and cheesy puns make him feel creative.

After the mile, I took a shower at the gym which - since I’m referring to The Village at Gainey Ranch - is the same thing as taking a shower at a the spa of an award-winning five-star resort.  It’s filled with undernourished trophy wives who’s bodies make me feel like the kind of round-ish woman people describe as “jolly.”  Propelled by the obvious disparity between my averageness and their yogaified figures, I was on the hunt for anyone heavier than me so I could give myself permission to belong to such a prestigious-cool-girl club.

My eyes scanned the room for someone to mentally objectify in order to compensate for my low self-esteem (likely a fifty-something with drooping triceps and unshaven thighs that rub together like sandpaper), until I saw her.  I saw another me - another self-effacing lioness - trapped in the body of a 17 year-old girl.  My heart sank, and compassion took over.  She was weighing herself repetitively even though she was a beautifully fit and petite young lady.  And since I have been liberated from a monsteras scale obsession that sucked away years of my life, I felt I should pass on a bit of hope.

“Hey, careful," I whispered, "that scale always reads five pounds more beautiful than we actually are.”  I threw in an exaggerated wink for effect.

And everyone laughed and high-fived and asked me for my autograph before toasting their wine coolers in slow motion.  Oh wait, no.  That’s not right.

In real-life, she chuckled with a big sigh, and so did her mom...not because I was a naked-creepy-lesbian from whom she should protect her daughter, but because "Five Pounds More Beautiful" should be a thing.

Hey ya’ll, I’m twelve pounds more beautiful than I should be.