If my name, instead of Genevieve, were Juliette--the name of the heroine in Hyperpersonal, Hypersexual, my first romance novel EVER (thanks, Total E-Bound!)--I wouldn't have to pay quite so much attention to my grocery list of new year's resolutions.
As a buxom, brilliant and effortlessly seductive young woman, Juliette doesn't have to worry about how she looks. Because, to the men who love her, she looks perfect all the time.
Unfortunately, I don't possess the same mythological metabolism--or a comparable number of studly admirers.
Instead, I'm still feeling guilty about last week's triple chocolate cake. And the chocolate volcano cake the week before that. Need I mention the lovely lemon cookies spangled with dark chocolate chips and caramel (an unlikely combination, I know--but delicious all the same).
The eggnog spiked with bourbon and adorned with a tapered crown of fresh whipped cream served to calm the senses just after Christmas, yet did unspeakably naughty things to my thighs.
In a fit of holiday cheer, some friends of mine and I prepared with verve a pecan-chocolate-caramel concoction, baked it, and then applied the moniker "The Pie That Shouldn't Be In Anyone...But Is" after we each consumed multiples of the heavy, flavorful slices and ended with night with pangs of regret in our bellies.
And unlike Juliette, now, I have to go to the gym.
Not without tears, of course.
Like clockwork so far this week, I've dabbed my eyes at the very sight of the 5:30 a.m. spinning classes programmed into the calendar on my mobile. Earplugs do precious little to block out the chirp-like reminder of my ill-conceived commitment.
Alas, it's been four days, but the learning curve at the gym is short, and these things I know:
You can sweat buckets until your clothes are sagging wet. Unfortunately, the effort does nothing to prevent my sagging triceps (compared to the toned triceps of the boys who didn't have to make any stay-in-shape resolutions).
The butt-blasting, awkwardly acrobatic remedies for my bulbous ass result in sore muscles and negligible improvement. (Who ever heard of an attractive ass described as bulbous? Henceforth, I'll refer to myself as "queenly.")
"Muscle burn" set in one day one...and has yet to subside. I've concluded the condition is not temporary and should be called, more aptly, "Muscle Burn Syndrome."
Now I simply console myself by ogling my quintessentially masculine and in-shape peers, of which there is certainly no shortage in Washington, DC.
Fodder for another book, at least. Eh, Juliette?
Lots of love,
Learn more about me on the Web:
Gen's Author Blog
Gen's Author Page at Total E-Bound