This one was a particularly sentimental one because we started our reunion weekend by revisiting our High School at an alumni assembly. Yes, the same auditorium where we ignored everything going on and hurt our rears with the rock hard seats hadn’t changed a bit except we all had more padding to protect us from the rock hard seats.

My particular class has a reunion every ten years, except we did have a 20th, 25th and 30th.

I am still trying to get over the difference from my 25th to this recent one, my 40th. (In case you want to read my blog reflections written after my 25th, click here – it is dripping with sarcasm)

It was told to many of us who attended our 40th (around 250 out of a class of 1260) that some of our classmates who we specifically asked for to come didn’t come because they didn’t want people to see a whole list of things about them such as: weight gain, aging, balding, or hear about a business loss, a divorce etc. Others said that they see all the people they want to see, so why come?

I guess that kind of thinking is for those that is for those who didn’t stray far from their roots- that are likely to live in an area swarming with people from our past who they can just bump into in the grocery store or where ever.

That is really sad because they missed out on a total love-fest. We are finally old enough, mature enough, and sentimental enough where all of the previous BS just doesn’t matter. No one cared who was popular, who was a nerd or geek, who was cute, or well dressed. There was just happiness, joy, surprise and camaraderie. People met and got to know people who they never gave a second glance to before, and found they liked each other! Shy people came out of their shells as adults. It was a wonder to behold. There were very few cliques this year – groups of old friends sat at tables together to eat, but that time was brief and EVERYONE mingled!

There was still the recognition factor to deal with but we easily read the LARGE PRINT (nice touch committee chairs by the way) ID tags, and all across the room, you could hear yelps, screeches, squeals and screams as old friends and acquaintances were found. In fact, this expression was actually used: “I know I know you – who are you?”

Some of my classmates from as far back as elementary school who had not shown up to any reunion before made appearances at this one, and it was so cool to chat (after the above recognition issue was solved) about those youthful, carefree days of kindergarten through sixth grade. It was like our entire neighborhood got together once again.

I even got to spend a bit of “misty water-colored memories of the way we were” with an ex and it was sweetly sentimental.

Because the time just whizzed by in a flash, there wasn’t time to get to EVERY person.

In fact, one guy I haven’t seen or heard from since Jr. High saw me on the dance floor and danced up to me and said, “Someone told me you are Arlene Nisson.” I recognized him right away, even without a name tag. For emphasis because it was kind of a weird approach,  I looked my own name tag and then answered him, “Yep! I am Arlene Nisson.”  He seemed absolutely stunned that a mousy-brown-haired, geeky, brace-face, skinny string-bean could turn into a regular looking human woman with cleavage- and a blonde no less. He then asked, “Do you know who I am?” Not missing a beat of my own dancing, I answered his correct name, and again he seemed stunned and amused, and danced off in another direction, smiling. That was the sum-total of our re-connection, but it was memorable. And happy.

Thank goodness I didn’t have to give him the “Ugly duckling always turns into the beautiful swan” punchline, but believe me, it was used several times over the course of this reunion when guys who had me frozen in time to my most gawky, awkward, pre-puberty looks were shocked at my transformation. (They didn’t notice me in HS or college obviously.)

NO PLASTIC SURGERY was another refrain I used often! (and that is the truth!)

My dear friend Pattie who I stayed close with is also now a blonde. After they checked out her name tag with her yearbook photo, they yelped “Pattie the cheerleader!.”

I had to then set the record straight. ”Not just cheerleader, but Assistant Captain!”

In fact, there were dozens of us former brunettes who are now blond or blond-ish. Dozens! Our name tags were the unfortunate high school yearbook mug shot. Name Tag: Brunette, Now In-Person: Blonde.

No wonder there was confusion. There were lots of gorgeous brunettes who stayed that way too I might add.

New blondes with Archie and Sandra F.

Sandra F. was frozen in time gorgeous as were many others who looked liked they could have graduated yesterday.Others transformed quite a bit, but it was delightful to see the new look. The best part about it was that no one focused on trivial things like looks or dress as we were notorious for doing in High School. We saw the PERSON this time. Maybe that’s what made it so very special.

Jackie, our dear classmate who lives in Israel, came in for the Reunion and we danced a rousing hora in her honor. Such fun! Such joy! (There were a LOT of Joys there too!)

I can’t quite describe all of the wonderful feelings of the evening as you had to be there, but as a few summed up, it was magical.

We saw the fleeting of our youth in a positive way (could it have been 40 years ago?) , and now as we are staring down the end of our middle age years, we all came together in such a beautiful, bonded way.

What’s more – we can’t wait for the next one! If you were there or experienced one recently, add your thoughts!

Yet I have decided to take a break from talking about my own mothering, or bragging, or whatever I usually do on Mother’s Day, to talk about another mother who has flawlessly pulled off one of the most daunting mothering assignments of all – raising quadruplets – and for a good portion of time as a divorced mom- into well-adjusted, really great adults. And this was before mega-multiples hit the scene and the reality show circuit and became fashionable! There was no reality show for Irene but she sure lived it.

I’ve known Irene and her instant brood of four since my own daughter was a newborn. Friends told me a playgroup was forming, and two of the moms who invited me and my daughter Elissa also included Irene, mother of four premature quadruplets – three boys, one girl – two identical twins, and the rest fraternal. Their names are Adam, Daniel, Lauren and Mark.
At first Irene had her hands more than full just getting them all to survive, then all on schedule, and somehow she conquered all those challenges with a sweet temperament.

One time she confided in me that she wanted to get pregnant again and have one baby so she could feel what that was like. I can’t say any of us would have wished to be in her shoes for even a moment, especially through those baby and toddler years, yet she made it look almost easy.She was, and is, as easy going as they come and that nature is reflected in her children. Through the years, she surmounted many challenges because she had four sets of wounds, puberty, teen issues, in-fighting, milestones, growing pains and everything else all at once. There was tons of juggling involved. Then she survived a shocking divorce, and then finally an all-at-once Empty Nest. (Click here to see a newspaper feature I wrote about them as they all prepared to leave for THREE DIFFERENT colleges)

Her kids were involved in sports and an active social life through the years and Irene managed schedules like an air traffic controller. Her house was the hub of activity as all the friends gathered there and still do.

In what proves that she raised all four to be very independent, they chose to NOT remain the “Quads unit” they were throughout their childhood and school years, and they split up for college. She deserves kudos just for that.Somehow Irene also figured out a way to move in and move out four kids through college in three different cities – none of them Houston. She then hosted all of her kids friends each time they visited in a non-stop social event until they were packed up and gone again. (With four sets of clean laundry.)

She survived two graduations in different cities on the same day, and tells hilarious stories of her kids like one of them losing his cap and gown right before graduation. (Who loses a cap and gown but my kid? asks Irene) Still, somehow, Mom came to the rescue- always. She allowed her children their own timetable for completing college, and now they all enjoy good jobs and successful lives in various cities.

Whenever I see them – those of her brood who don’t live in Houston visit often enough, they have the kind of confidence, sociability, manners, poise and presence that tell me what a truly great job of mothering Irene did.

To Irene and ALL of the great moms – and you know who I am talking about as there are loads of you out there – sit back and bask in the great job you did and enjoy your day. Celebrate yourself!

Still another friend is counting the days – just a few away – till her soldier son comes home from Afghanistan. That too makes me put this holiday into perspective. Although they won’t be able to celebrate the actual day together, they are due one heck of a celebration together shortly afterwards.
I am lucky this year to have both kids around as my daughter is coming in for a visit.

Wishing you all a very Happy Mother’s Day!

The tale of me fitting into a little black dress for my 40th reunion seems to have struck a chord. Everywhere I turned for weeks, anyone I ran into asked me for an update on the surgery and the Little Black Dress saga. That damn dress took on a life of it’s own becoming the stuff of legends.

I liked it because of the cute embellishments on it. There are cute flower petals on the empire, and at the hemline and some of those petals have sparkly sequins to add a little pizzazz. I wanted something very youthful and cute for this reunion. Do I even have to say why?

What I didn’t count on though was a DARK room. In all the photos, I looked like I could have been wearing a low cut black sack cloth, and in the photos these details didn’t even show up.

See what I mean?

At any rate, it fit perfectly on reunion night and I still felt girly and pretty in it which is a particularly important way to feel if you are a dinosaur enough to be going to your 40th High School reunion.

Several funny stories about the wide reach of my previous blog tale of woe with the Little Black Dress being snug that I thought I should pass on.

We had several crashers from the class a year before ours. It was great to see many of them. One of these guys requested a photo with me, because he “Had to get a photo with me in my little black dress!”

Still another at the reunion – a guy I knew since elementary, junior high, but mostly didn’t see at all in High School and I probably did not utter a word to him since Junior High – we had a huge class of 1260 in High School. I saw him at the bar at the reunion, recognized him and said Hi, and he knew who I was too and we then had the following exchange.

Larry: So you lost a bit of weight, eh?

Arlene: What do you mean? I was MUCH skinnier in junior high when you knew me! (Thinking he was remembering me as someone else)

Larry: No, what I mean is you lost weight and got into the little black dress!

So you see, a guy I had not seen or heard from since JUNIOR HIGH happens to be my Facebook Friend and when I post links to my blog, I guess he sometimes reads it. Random, right?

Although it is 1966, and they are using current events for conversation, I find myself bored enough with the events this season to look for errors in the period.

I was in 6th grade in 1966 – turned 11 in May of that year, so I was keenly aware of culture, and the world surrounding me. It irks me that they misused modern conveniences and gadgets constantly this season because I know what was being used then.

A simple check on the Internet confirms my suspicions that things like push button telephones, featured in the Draper apartment, though introduced in 1963, were mostly used by businesses until the late 70′s when it entered the common household. The Draper’s couldn’t have called Ma Bell and said give me one of those push button ones in 1966 – no matter how mod they were – it is just not believable to me. My parents still have this one (featured in a previous blog) – a rotary phone installed in the 1970′s.

I know for a fact that remote controls on TV’s as shown on a recent episode were not in use until the late 70′s as well. No normal family with a normal television set had a remote control to turn on the TV like Sally Draper did in her stepfather’s home.

I also knew that dresses or skirts were mandatory for girls until about 1969 or 1970 in most public schools. We were allowed to wear pants under skirts on very cold days but other than that, no pants were worn in school by girls until much later than 1966. Yet this week they showed a high school girl wearing a pair of tight slacks in school. Wouldn’t have happened.

A hooker girl they showed in a leopard bra and panties was wearing the wrong sort of underwear for the 60′s. There were no soft-cup push up type bras, they were all cone shaped and had under-wires back then, except for training bras. In fact, there was no Victoria’s Secret in 1966 – they weren’t established until 1977.

Boxes from the Bakery were ONLY IN WHITE. No colored pink cardboard used in the 1960′s. That’s totally the generation later. Small, but annoyingly incorrect details.

It is things like this that irk me because I realize the writers are all at least a generation down from me (and possibly two) and they have no clue as to what really happened in the 60′s. There is only so much that the research dept. can turn up about things, and the rest, of course they have to guess. If push button phones and remotes were invented before 1965, then surely Don Draper and his kin would have these things. Not even J. Paul Getty had these things in the 60′s!

See how bored I am!

So hey guys at Mad Men – I was alive and alert then! How about paying a real live person as a consultant, like ME, to give you advice on how to not mess up on the period details. I am available!

At any rate, he is 14 and has his good days and bad days. He looks great to most people and even his Vet said he is very youthful looking for his age. Yet he sleeps a lot, is hard of hearing, and is definitely slowing down.

Doodles has led a pampered life. He gets a more expensive and more often hair styling than I do. He goes once a month to a groomer we have loved for 14 years.  He comes back looking gorgeous – he is quite a glamorous guy, even at his age.

(NOTE: The big Reunion’s next week, and I did some self pampering of my own this weekend – but that’s rare for me)

A couple of times, Doodles came back sore and with a limp from the groomer. Our son Adam, who is a Veterinarian and who is brilliant at diagnosing even over the phone and by video over the internet, said it is common for dogs to get injured at the groomer as they are tethered by the neck and can hurt a disk.

We took care in initially selecting the groomer to use one that was highly recommended and esteemed in our community. They are extremely gentle and caring. Yet injuries can and do occur. They admitted as much.

This time, Doodles came back and couldn’t even walk. He wasn’t whimpering or in distress, but he refused to walk an inch. We took videos and Adam thought it was a disk problem – that he threw it out at the groomer.

Adam said to bring him to an Acupuncturist. He himself has specialized in this type of treatment and I sure wish he was local instead of practicing in Laguna Beach. We plan to do exactly as he instructed but none were open this weekend. So Adam said to give him this holistic vitamin-type tablet for pain this weekend and have him completely rest.

We have carried him to his food, to the lawn, etc. And a day later he is showing small signs of progress as he was able to walk a bit tonight. to his food bowl.  He’s sleeping, eating, doing his duty – a typical day since he usually sleeps 23 out of 24 hours anyway.

We have a big decision to make next. Since this is one of a pattern of injuries at the groomer, I think it is time to retire the old man from the hair stylist. He will have to have baths and grooms at home given by us. Hoo Boy, is that going to be fun.

Nonetheless, it just isn’t worth the risk of him getting badly injured.

Here’s hoping the Acupuncture gets him back to top form quickly and that I can handle giving him a grooming.

To those out there with aging dogs, I say, Beware of the Groomer.

Because of my pace, I get to observe the various life forms that congregate there, to my great enjoyment. ALthough I would not consider camping out, ( remind me one time to recount my last camping out fiasco which doubled as my honeymoon!)  I do enjoy hikes in scenic places and other opportunities to observe the natural world.

Guest Blog by Robbi Nester

A hobby is something casual we do with our time, something we can take or leave, at will, without having our lives too greatly impacted. For me, hiking is a hobby, spending hours in the kitchen laboring over special dishes is a hobby. But yoga is much more than a hobby for me, it is a way of life. Up there with writing, which is profession, habit, part of who I am as breath, my yoga practice has become for me just another given, one of the necessities of life.

I tried many times and for many years to pull together these two pillars of my existence, writing about yoga, without success. On one hand, there was the instruction book, a description like the ones I heard from my yoga teachers every day in class—femurs back, eyes soft, shoulders back, that sort of stuff. On the other there was rhapsodizing about the feelings yoga gave me—the sense of calm, the ability to focus, the utter clarity.

To make a poem out of yoga, I had to fuse the physical and the psychological, adding for good measure a dollop of auditory pizazz and the verbal equivalent of the rhythm of the pose.  These things had to be perfectly blended, with not a word too many, accurate as an instruction book, yet also exactly the equivalent of the mental state of the person practicing the pose.

You can judge for yourself whether I have succeeded in finding that perfect blend, since my chapbook, Balance, is available on my blog,as well as at Red Room.

The book, published by White Violet Press, follows a sequence of poses developed by B.K.S. Iyengar to foster emotional stability. There are 15 poems and 15 illustrations, one for each of the poses.  I figured that people who came to the book having little familiarity with yoga should have a way in to the poems, though they also offer many visual images that approximate the appearance of the pose itself.

My cousin, Nina Canal, who lives in Marseille, France, generously offered to illustrate the book, a task accomplished by email, since neither of us could afford the time or money to get on a plane to meet in person. Nina was not a yoga practitioner, so this presented an additional challenge. I sent her books with pictures of Iyengar and others doing the poses, though not always with the props demanded in this sequence.

Iyengar yoga is known for its use of such props as bricks, backless chairs, straps, and yoga horses. According to my yoga teacher, Denise Thibault, one student who had never been to an Iyengar class before asked her, “Is this the kind of yoga where you move furniture?” In essence, yes, though the furniture is not the usual kind and the moving happens for a different reason than the usual one.

The idea is that the novice should be put into an approximation of the classic pose, even if that person’s body is not yet ready to accomplish the pose by itself. The body’s memory, the system holds, will remember the feeling of being in this pose, and, given enough practice, the person will one day be able to dispense with the prop and go into the pose proper. That being said, although I have been doing Iyengar yoga for 25 years or so, there are some poses (many, actually) where I have not been able to leave the prop behind. For example,  I still do headstand at the wall because of my weak shoulders.  But Mr. Iyengar is 93 years old, and still practicing yoga many hours a day. Judging by his august example, I’ve still got some time to go, and thus hope of improvement.

I know that’s possible because when I first started yoga, I could barely make it past my knees with my fingers in standing forward bend.  Attempting downward dog, I would sag in the middle like a junk-yard sofa, and headstand was beyond hope. Getting into the poses, even with props, was a great challenge, as I would slide off the folding chair in shoulder stand, or it would fold up on my fingers.  Every class led to days of painful stair-climbing, sitting, standing up from sitting.

But I ignored the sniggering from the back of the room, and persevered, as indeed I had with writing so many years before. That said though, I was hardly a natural athlete, though I had been, arguably, a born writer, who lived, for all practical purposes, at the branch library across the street when I was growing up in Philadelphia.

In contrast, I hold the distinction, as far as I know, of being the only person ever to get an F in high school gym and still attend class. I was hopeless at team sports, slow and awkward, dreaming in the outfield, only to be bonked by the ball, too short at 4’10” for basketball, unable to jump or to serve a volleyball, always chosen last for a team.

It makes me smile, therefore, to think that at age 59, I can relatively easily slip into poses that would make my former teammates groan, and hold them for a long time as well. I guess that shows that all things come to those who practice.

I was lamenting in a recent blog that my size blankety-blank little black dress for my 40th High School Reunion coming up was a bit snug. I don’t know what I was thinking when I bought that size as I am at least a size up or more this past winter. However, it should be noted that I aspire to that size, and have always hovered “around” that size in my adult life. I am 5’7″ tall and a bit big-boned, so it was a wonderful size to wear as a woman who needed to stop dressing in the juniors department but did for waaaayy too long.

There is a psychological term for when anorexic people think they look fat even when their bones are protruding from their body. It is called Body Dysmorphic Disorder.

There is no psychological term for the opposite, which is what I have. Or maybe it is plain denial. I go around thinking if I dress in  black and slimming clothes, no one will notice my winter weight gain. I look in the mirror and see myself as just fine and not fat at all. But the scale and the tight clothing, and the size or two up that I have to keep in my closet tell the more accurate picture. And the people that I bump into when I do lose a bit of weight towards the summer: they inevitably say, “Oh, you’ve lost weight!” which is the most backhanded compliment I can think of, because they are telling you they have noticed your weight gain and your denial doesn’t quite work as well.

(SIDE NOTE: My son – a handsome man in his late 20′s said he had this discussion with girls his age and it was UNANIMOUS that they get offended if someone says they look like they lost weight. My son’s theory – skip all weight compliments! He is such a smart guy besides being handsome!)

Getting back to the size blankety-blank dress that I am determined to wear in three weeks: I do not know what possessed me to buy it in the size I did. It fit then, but I do have vast fluctuations especially coming off the winter season.

In situations where I do these stupid things, I need an inner sister girlfriend whispering in my ear.  ”Girlfriend! A size BLANKETY-BLANK? Really? Who you kidding? You haven’t seen that size since your forties!” ( Ok, that last line was an exaggeration, because I can and do wear that size all summer long.)

Or maybe I need a little devil sitting on my shoulder laughing hysterically as I buy an item a size too small.  (“I love these deluded women who waste their money,” the devil laughs with glee.)

But now to get to the amazing thing: I had a gum recession issue that was worsening and bothering me because it was a bit sensitive. The dentist/surgeon pronounced that it is now time to spend thousands of dollars for pain and torture of the mouth once again – and that it shouldn’t wait. (But Dr. I have to time it for my REUNION!)

Knowing I have the most HIGH MAINTENANCE mouth thanks to genetics, I went ahead and allowed three weeks of healing time before the reunion and had it taken care of with a gum grafting surgery. It turned out to be a big more complicated than expected as the surgeon had to use more tissue from the roof of my mouth than thought. OUCH! It is now the consistency of hamburger meat up there with a ton of stitches.

Forget the fact that I may not be able to smile for any reunion photos in three weeks, because I also CAN’T EAT. I will be on liquids for the next several days and then soft food.  I don’t even WANT to eat. I sat there at my favorite deli today with my husband and son gorging themselves, and I couldn’t even slide a few noodles down my gullet in the chicken soup I ordered.

So all those chips and fattening things I love will be out of the question up to the reunion, I will lose the weight I need and voila! I will fit perfectly into my little black reunion dress.

You have to take the good with the bad, don’t you know? And don’t worry, for those following this saga, I will post my reunion photos with my shriveled body in the now infamous black dress and a lopsided smile after our reunion.

This is probably strange coming from a girl who has a deep passionate love and soft spot for pets and animals of all kinds and who even had hampsters growing up. This is the thing though about hampsters. They don’t have rodent long slimy tails, they have nubs. So they look like miniature chipmunks or bunny rabbits with short ears. Very un-rodent-like. On the other hand, I would have never adopted a gerbil, because THEY resemble a rodent.
So at any rate, we have all kinds of nature converging in our small backyard. We have hummingbirds, raccoons, possums, cardinals, frogs, lizards, water beetles that like to congregate in my pool, (remind me to repost my blog “Swimming with the Beetles/Beatles) an occasional hawk, butterflies, and other assorted life forms. In fact, I am like the Snow White poster where all the little animals surround her – despite it’s smallish size, the animals are magnetically drawn to our yard.

It’s been fascinating to watch, especially when a random animal finds itself stuck in our pool. We have fished out several critters.
On a day last week, my husband found a baby possum swimming in our pool, trying to get out for dear life.
          
I hate the possums in our backyard, mostly because they are UGLY large RODENTS with long slimy rodent tails and beady eyes. I scream and run as far away from the possums whenever they appear, but my husband gets a kick out of them.

So he fishes out the baby possum, and dumps it on the grass but then he feels bad it is alone, and shaking from cold and squealing -

          

“He/She was crying (hissing)” my husband said.  So he runs back to the Internet to look up “orphaned shivering baby possum.” The instructions said that before you do a rescue or call animal services, to get the body temperature up, otherwise the baby will die.

The possibility of the baby suffering deathly consequences for taking a swim in our pool did not sit well with my soft-hearted husband. He read that you wrap the possum in a towel, and hold it to your body to restore it’s own body heat and then put it in a box with a heating pad.

So he set out to rescue this baby possum. He brought a towel outside and wrapped the baby possum up and put it close to his body. That’s when the baby possum, who had been hissing, took it’s adult-like razor-sharp teeth and decided to bite my husband.
The towel shielded my husband’s finger from the bite to the point where it didn’t break his skin, but I think he finally figured out that he too should feel the same way about possums, even baby ones, as his wife does. He dropped the baby possum in the bushy area in the back screaming “You’re on your own, you little MOTHER F’ER. (my G rated blog can’t print the entire quote unfortunately)

I’ve got the perfect little black dress picked out – not too dressy, not too casual, and now I just have to fit into it. I often buy garments well in advance of the event when I see a good deal, and the dress fit me beautifully this past fall before I gained my winter weight. I am sure no one from the Northeast HS class of 1972 will mind me being a bit zaftig, but this is all about the dress as you will read on.

I do this every year since I turned the big 5-0. My winter expansion is from being outdoors less, exercising less, spending free time eating more, etc. I complain and blog about it every year too. I call it my Puffy Season.

My husband, who is honest to a fault – to the point where I wish to physically harm him due to his frankness – told me, “Don’t worry, you are just big boned.” He claimed he was joking as I leaped for his jugular, but I am not so sure. (Remind me to keep those ragged edges going on my nails because he loves to get his back scratched and I want to hurt him. JUST KIDDING in case you don’t understand my sarcasm)

The Slim Away belt didn’t exactly work either so I have some major work to do to get into that cute little Max Azaria dress in four weeks. Using another dress is out of the question – this dress is THE ONE for this event. There can be NO other!

The problem is that it is going to require willpower, one of the things I severely lack. With just four weeks looming I realize that I c-a-n-n-o-t eat with abandon as per usual. Darn it! I actually have to stop shoveling food down my gullet, at least in the quantities I am used to.

Speaking of quantities, I went to this seminar where everyone had to introduce themselves with something VERY UNIQUE about themselves. One woman said she had twins. Real unique? NOT. (okay, maybe a little but I have a friend who has QUADRUPLETS for goodness sakes.)

But at any rate, another woman introduced herself and said “I eat like a man – big man-sized portions.” I looked at her tiny body and my jaw dropped. She was MY twin! (except she was a size 2 and I am not discussing my current size)

Of course I couldn’t use that same unique characteristic, so I said something lame like I interviewed Steven Spielberg in person once and he was a great guy.

I should have challenged her to a duel over food portion at the luncheon later that day, but it probably would have confused her since I had the whole Spielberg story going and she didn’t have a clue I could give her a run for her money in the eating department.It’s the quantity that always catches up to me. I have the proverbial bottomless pit, hollow leg, man-sized appetite. I out-eat my husband all the time and he is amazed.

Back to the four week thing. The original plan was to enroll in boot camp for two or three months to be svelte for early May. It usually takes me to Memorial Day or early June when I start swimming to drop the LB’s. But the boot camp idea fell by the wayside, because I am too busy.

So for me it is truly the Salad days ahead. I will resist. In fact, I had my last man-sized margarita last night. Wish me luck! And classmates, don’t even mention it if the pretty little black dress looks a bit snug.