This winter was fueled by copious amounts of hot cocoa, wine, and whatever I could scavenge to divert my attention from my children home on another snow day the snowbanks piling ever higher against my door.  These delectables ranged from leftover taco cheese, to Cheerios, to Halloween candy I found stashed behind a dusty box of rice noodles. You get the idea.

Now, I've been  meaning to exercise, of course.  On mogul runs, especially, with my thighs burning, I swore I would hit the treadmill or take up spinning or at least try those cultish Barre classes.  But we all know that the road to fitness is paved with good intentions, and even those were largely ignored by apres-ski.

This past weekend, I wore a new top that my sister gave me for Christmas.  She's better than a personal shopper.  It covered all evidence of my winter diet and the two c-sections I'm still blaming. Five year old Rosie rushed over to me to check things out.  She smooshed her head into my stomach.

"Oh, good!  Your belly is still chubby!" she said.  She looked at me to make sure I understood. "Chubby is a happy word for fat."  It was, clearly, a compliment.

I assured her I got it.  And I seem to have.  Today, without any conscious thought, I found myself at the community gym.  It's in the basement of an old building, and I was the youngest one there.  It smells reassuringly just like my high school's weight room, and I picked out a treadmill.

Breaking a sweat felt great.  I envisioned finishing a marathon. Then I checked my time.  I'd been running for 8 minutes.  Perhaps a 5K, then.  A flat one.  I held out 16 minutes longer, then accidentally pressed the wrong button and things came to a shuddering stop.  I took it as a sign and hopped off, face beet red and legs wobbly.  The senior next to me smiled and kept sprinting.

Outside, it was near 50.  The snow was actually melting.  Thanks to Rosie, I just might be ready for summer after all.  Or at least next year's mogul runs.

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