CHUBBY

I don’t know if any of you have noticed—I don’t know if you are just a little too polite to say anything—but I’m a tad bit chubby. How could I miss this fact? I mean, I do have a full sized mirror. So what if it has been hung horizontally above the sofa for the last decade. I can still see plenty of myself so long as I stand on the third stair going upstairs and lean slightly to the left. So what if what is reflected is mostly from the shoulders up?

I re hung the mirror the other day to see how I was looking in that Pan Mass Jersey from 1999. Ah, my jersey, my pride and joy. One does not just toss on a Pan Mass Jersey. One cannot buy one at the mall. One earns their jersey. One aspires to the jersey. But purple and yellow? Purple and yellow. My my my. (What was the designer thinking? Easter Bunnies rule?) What ever happened to basic black or a sensible navy? A tad bit chubby, indeed. OK, let’s leave the tad out of the equation.

I am chubby. There, I said it. Well it wasn’t actually me that said it, it was the dang bike. Last Thursday started out good with a fine ride into Boston. The Emerald Necklace along the Jamaica Way is simply glorious—especially going down the long steep hill. But then the ride back up in the rain was just plain beastly. Why aren’t there tow ropes? Where are the chair lifts? I quit my inner whining, ponied up and started my ascent towards Pond Street. I was on a mission: to get ready for the hills of Sturbridge.

Pretty much I haven’t noticed the cumulative effects of Ben & Jerry because I always come to work in denim out fits. I don’t rely on mirrors so much because I’m pretty sure about how I’m looking as I walk out the door each day. Besides, everyone knows that no one has looked all that good in denim since John Wayne or the Marlboro man. When at a loss for what to wear I can always say—I think I’ll wear the blue. Or if I really want to mix it up I choose the darker jeans and a lighter top all delicately branded with the DFCI logo.

Nevertheless, even though I find myself chubby I have had a training plan: here goes: all I need to do is get on a bike and my muscle memory takes over, right? I mean, what were all those years sailing through the dunes of Provincetown on a bike all about? But just like everything else that happens in ageing—right along there with my forgetful menopausal mind are my forgetful well-meaning muscles.