30 and 25

Those are the numbers that now rule my life. 30 years of age, 25 pounds I've put on since my metabolism decided it would not work past the age of 28. They really aught to give you a manual with your body. Under the section of "Enjoy it while you can" you would find me nodding my head in agreement.

16 and 10 used to be my numbers. 16 the number I wear on the pitch, fearless as can be, Captain of the soccer team. 10 the number I wished I could wear on the pitch, the number reserved for the star of the team. (See Pele, Maradonna, Baggio, etc.). 10 was also the number of pounds I was always underweight. "The acceptable weight range for a woman your age is 130 - 155. You're now at 122, so you could stand to gain some weight." I would laugh.

It's not like I wasn't trying. Something was going on with my body that had cursed my mother, she of 5'4" and 100 pounds on her wedding day. I was never that tiny, growing to 5'7" and leveling out at 130 through college, then down to 120 after a breakup, then back to 130. On my wedding day I weighed 132. And yes, I do know exactly what I weighed on my wedding day. Just like my mother.

Three moves to the land of mormonism and now the sunshine state have left me at 155. It's also the number of times I tell myself during a course of a day that I'm going to seriously work on this weight thing this time. This is it. No turning back. I'm getting up at 6 in the morning and working out. Seriously.

Of course, the cats stare at me as 6:10 rolls by. Then 6:15. By the time 6:30 rolls around they're seriously pissed off at me. This is their dinner time, and no amount of laziness is going to keep them from getting their food. It is only this peer pressure that succeeds in getting me out of bed. I feel my way through the darkened apartment as my husband continues to snore. He sleeps as late and as long as he can, but when he has to be awake he is awake. It's an obscene sort of discipline that drives me insane.

After I've managed to feed the cats in the dark I go back to bed. At this point, my husband is ready to get up. He gets ready for work while I continue to steal a few more minutes of sleep. The irony is I will have to leave the apartment before he does to get to work on time.

I give myself ten minutes in the morning. Wake up, put the English muffins in the toaster, while they're toasting, brush my teeth and get dressed. Muffins up, I'm dressed, time to stuff the makeup in the purse, kiss my husband goodbye and head to work. I accomplish this everyday in a span of ten minutes. Why? Maybe the nostalgia of never having worn the number 10. Mostly, a stubborn refusal to turn over any more of my day than I absolutely have to to do something I don't particularly want to do.

Perhaps I'll wake up at 6 tomorrow. It's only one number away from 16.