I was enormously fat.

I woke up, relieved, until I looked at my body.

Time to acquaint myself with my new (well, second hand, but new to me) D*R*E*A*D*M*I*L*L.

re-employing it to do what it is intended to do under D*R*E*A*D*M*I*L*L law, which is:

To make me Suffer.

But before I allow it to make me do unspeakable things like getting up and ... oh, the mere thought makes me ill... actually MOVING, I'm taking some time to make necessary preparations (like lying down and hoping that the D*R*E*A*D*M*I*L*L will spontaneously combust). Besides, no need to rush impulsively into such serious undertakings, especially not if it can kill you, right? RIGHT?

Anyway, so before I can burn the fat (and kids, there's a reason why they say "BURN" the fat... But trust me, as someone who's suffered a real burn wound, the pain caused by exercise IS WORSE), I need to burn some CDs first. CDs containing tunes so inspirational that it will not only make me WANT to run (hey, I can fantasize!), but that will just magically give me the stamina of a Kenyan outrunning a Serengeti lion up Mt. Kilimanjaro. (Why did you THINK the Kenyans always win all the marathons?)

So as you can tell, this business of picking just the right songs is also very serious. It requires lots of time and dedication.

First I have to go through the entire CD collection. Then I have to listen to every song on every CD in order to find out which ones are too slow and which ones are upbeat enough to inspire me to perspire.

After weeding out the ballads, I have to rip the final selections to the pc. Before I do this, I listen to my choices a few times more to see if they still cause me to break out in voluntary twitches and convulsions (I told you not everyone from Africa has rhythm!). If upon second hearing of a song my leg still shakes, then I know the tune is a definite keeper.

You'll probably agree that this is a lengthy and time-consuming process, so it might take many more months (hopefully maybe even years) before the Soundtrack for the D*R*E*A*D*M*I*L*L is completed.

I've already listened to thousands of tunes. And it recently occurred to me that if the D*R*E*A*D*M*I*L*L could serenade me or compile this soundtrack, the discography would probably look a little like this (and my apologies to the original song writers for warping some of the titles a bit. My D*R*E*A*D*M*I*L*L apparently thinks it's Weird Al Yankovic):

A gleeful and sinister "Girl I'm Gonna Make You Sweat" based on the groovy yet vile "Sweat" by Inner Circle.

"Stupid Girl (For Getting So Fat)" based on the Garbage song by the first part of the title.

"And You WILL Walk 500 Miles Right Now Simply Because I'm Making You" based on "500 Miles" by The Proclaimers. (Complete with the Scottish accent, Amy.)

"Your Body Is NOT A Wonderland But If You Keep This Up For An Hour Every Day Five Times A Day For The Rest Of Your Life It MIGHT Resemble Something Close To, If Not Exactly A Wonderland, Then At Least An Amusement Park." Yes, my D*R*E*A*D*M*I*L*L is a tad verbose. He (of COURSE it's a "he" - only a "he" can be this obnoxious. And yes, I know I called him an it before, but let's not nitpick, shall we?) clearly didn't get it from me. Anyway, so that ditty is based on the song "Your Body Is A Wonderland" by John Meyer (or is it Mayer? I'm too lazy to hunt for the CD cover right now to check the spelling).

"Hey, UNsexy Lady" inspired by a Shaggy tune of a similar title.

It's enough to make me want to smother the D*R*E*A*D*M*I*L*L with laundry all over again!

So, kind and gentle readers, do you have any inspirational song suggestions for my D*R*E*A*D*M*I*L*L Soundtrack? Please share in the comments! (But no rush, REALLY!)

Okay, fine. I admit. I DID go ten-pin bowling once. And I suppose you can even say that I did have a strike of sorts, because apart from me, no one else in the history of that particular South African bowling alley has EVER managed to let go of the ball right as their arm was fully extended… backwards. (I don’t know if they’ve managed to fix that hole in the wall next to the counter where you get those snazzy bowling shoes. It was quite a hole! I couldn’t understand everyone’s irritation surprise. Then again, with such a heavyweight ball, what sort of damage did they expect?)

No, I’m definitely not sporty. In fact, I relate all too much to a character in a television commercial that used to be aired here in the USA, in which a guy who is reclining on his couch says something like: "Sure I’m sporty. I fish."

Well, no, I don’t even fish… but you get my drift.

Unfortunately there comes a time in everybody’s lives when one’s (in my case, alleged) metabolism slows down - like now, when one is thirty years and a few days old - and the effects of gravity speeds up. (And the latter, sadly, is just about the only thing that speeds up!)

So one needs exercise.

I’ve always considered the commute up- and downstairs from my bedroom to the refrigerator here at home to be a stiff (and completely sufficient) workout. Then I noticed the effects of Sir Isaac Newton’s discovery in the mirror one day. I passed out from shock and the next thing you know – when I came to it again – there was a treadmill in my life.

Just like that.

We wearily scouted each other out first, that treadmill and I. (No need to rush into these things. Besides, anything with the word mill at the end of it promises to lead to great unpleasantness and evil. For example: Puppy-mill.)

Always one to approach things intellectually (don’t smirk like that!), I read the accompanying literature first, which came in the form of warranties (although, I have to point out, they don’t guarantee that you’ll make it out of the experience alive!) and instructions.

The instructions basically read: Plug it in, position yourself on the treadmill, flip the switch to ON and run for your life. And the rest of the 200-page booklet contained a series of urgently marked warnings – in VERY small print, I might add – to tell you of all the possible ways you could injure and/or kill yourself.

I promptly dubbed it the D*R*E*A*D*M*I*L*L.

"But," giggled my best friend in Botswana when she heard about this new contraption of torture in my possession, "You can hardly put one foot in front of the other on DRY LAND without tumbling into manholes or tripping over tiny cracks in the pavement."

(With a friend like that… See why we live in different Hemispheres?)

Somehow encouraged even more, she continued: "I predict that you are going to shoot backwards like a cannon ball (or should I say a bowling ball?) the moment you set foot on the thing." Followed by evil laughter. "Whoa, ha, ha, ha, haaa!" (Okay, not really… but that preceding bit all happened on e-mail.)

With those words of support and faith in my inability, I started fretting about my severe lack of hand-eye-foot-brain coordination.

I may have told you before, I’m not good at doing two things simultaneously. Actually, I often have trouble keeping my wits about me while performing merely ONE task!

The closest I ever come to multitasking is when I’m daring enough to eat in front of the television, and even then it’s a toss-up between food somehow disappearing somewhere between the plate, the fork and my mouth, or – in the event that I successfully manage a bite – losing track of the plot of whatever is happening on television. (Charming picture, isn’t it?)

So I decided I had to do something to improve my basic motor skills before jumping onto (and being expected to keep up with) a machine with its own set of motor skills.

Thus I went back to cautiously observing it from afar for a few more weeks.

Finally, one day, during a surge of unexpected ambition (I was clearly on a caffeine high!) and a fit of temporary insanity ("fit" in that sense of the word is unfortunately the only definition that applies to me), I jumped on.

It was actually not so bad. I had a lovely stroll at about one mph (I didn’t want to risk a heart attack the very first time, see, by putting too much pressure on myself.).

After a series of successfully executed steps (without even holding onto the handlebars!), I became rather confident and cocky and decided to step it up a notch (so to speak) and speed that baby up.

A few miles per hour faster (no need in revealing the exact numbers, right?), and I nearly collapsed when I realised that I was actually breaking a sweat! (Believe me, considering my previous level of activity, it was indeed quite a sight. Not a good one, understand, but a true phenomenon – no matter how ugly. In fact, I think that’s about the time when I started looking like a hamster running inside one of those spinning wheels.)

"Sweating," I reckoned, "means that something positive must be happening in terms of my fitness level."

A few minutes later I looked down at all those flashing screens and things on the control panel (which closely resembles the instrument panel in the cockpit of a Boeing 747 and is about equally as complicated.).

"Whoo hoo!" I yelled. (Okay, to be honest, it was more like a gargling, heavy breathing noise emerging from my mouth at that stage.) "I’ve just ran FIVE miles!"

But that’s when I looked again and saw that FIVE was NOT the distance covered so far, but really the amount of calories burned.

Disheartened, disillusioned and not thinking clearly due to this newly inflicted trauma AND fatigue, I found and pressed Stop.

And that’s where the trouble started, because, although the tread stopped turning abruptly and immediately, my brain didn’t respond, and my legs kept right on going.

Now, what happened next is usually only explained in Physics textbooks (or is seen in horrible car crashes).

I fell off.

But no pain no gain, right?

I wish I could say that I got right back on (which is exactly what one is supposed to do after falling from horses or other abstract objects like bikes, but I didn’t, because no one has ever written such a rule to apply to treadmills). Besides, I had twisted an ankle, so the pain was real, even if the gain was not.

So, that’s the story of my brief but intense love affair with the treadmill so far.

For now, I’m nursing the ankle while still observing the D*R*E*A*D*M*I*L*L from afar. (Funny how all things, even relationships with not quite so inanimate objects as treadmills, always seem to come full circle.)

But meanwhile I’m not getting thinner, and this gravity issue doesn’t seem to be going away either, so you can be certain that this relationship isn’t at an end.

Needless to say, I’ll keep you posted.

In case you haven’t noticed yet, I have quite an aversion to exercise. I prefer releasing my endorphins in less strenuous ways, like by sipping coffee whilst merely fantasizing about how I’m going to exercise.

But alas, I’m growing concerned almost as quickly as I’m growing sideways, because recent accidental glances at the mirror have revealed that certain appendages are … um… shifting thanks to that time-unfriendly phenomenon discovered by Sir Isaac Newton so long ago.

Of course, the culprit mirror was immediately covered with an enormous sheet, but too late, because the psychological damage has already been inflicted and no matter how hard I pinch my eyes shut, the horrifying image seems to be all too clearly etched onto my mind.

So, I seem to be having another day of good intentions (the second one this month, which is most unusual for me, because I’m normally VERY good at suppressing any health-related (healthy?) thoughts).

Make no mistake, I’ve been very good about my exercise. And every day finds me eagerly running to the refrigerator when retrieving my snacks or my coffee milk. I’ve even gone as far as moving the refrigerator a little further away, so now it takes me five steps to get there instead of the usual three.

Seriously though, I have to do something more. As soon as possible.

And not just because I have some important dates coming up, like being in a play (rehearsals start in a week, eeeek!), and my 30th my next very youthful birthday in two and a half months. Because let’s face it, dates come and go almost as quickly as my motivation, so not only do I need to start (again) but this time I need to STICK WITH IT.

So pray tell, oh fitness freaks, what keeps all of you motivated?

Nothing. To this day. (Except for the boobs. They arrived in all their gory DD* glory overnight some time between my seventeenth and eighteenth year.)

Granted, it probably would've helped if I had opened the Dummies book at least once, but let's not get bogged down by too many technicalities, okay?

So the only growing I've done on the food front thus far has occurred sideways, I'm afraid.

Luckily the boy caught on quickly about my lack of domestic skills. (Read: After starving for a year he lost all hope and dragged his carcass out the door and to the store.) He bought a grill and for a summer we devoured a carnivorous diet that would've put even the late Dr. Atkins to shame... Unfortunately winter struck again as it tends to do, and we were once again left with the hearty pickings offered by America's fast food industry.

And because I grew up in South Afica where we were taught to eat everything on our plates, I ate on behalf of the entire continent of Africa... until last night.

You see, I have a friend who totally lucked out when she stood in line to receive the cooking gene. Whoever was dishing up that day was probably the same person who went on to design portion sizes in the U.S., because my friend certainly received more than her share of culinary talent. (In fact, I think I’ve finally figured out who got MY portion!)

People like her who have been blessed with the cooking chromosome to this freakish extent are hard to come by in real life, because most of them are already famous and don’t mingle with the masses except for maybe once a year when they stoop down from culinary heaven to promote and autograph their new television specials and cookbooks.

Cookbooks written not so much to disclose any of their secret recipes as to taunt their adoring fans with. If one actually manages to read the recipes in said cookbooks, look between the lines and learn that words like “fast, simple, and easier to prepare than opening a can!” actually means “dare to try THIS you suckers, and your pathetic little inner che… I mean, common cook, will be forever destroyed, MMWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.”

Yes, beware… the apocalypse of many an amateur chef lurks in the pages of a Lagasse, Child, Puck, and Lawson.

I suppose I’m lucky then that my friend has thus far remained undiscovered. Because not only do we get to attend her infamous dinner parties, but most of her recipes are in her head, leaving the rest of us blissfully unable to attempt recreating the complicated concoctions, thereby sparing us from certain humiliation and potential kitchen infernos.

So a week ago, as I was lamenting my “mysterious” weight gain to her while grazing on my staple of grease and "McDoodad’s" fries, and she was melancholic over how she’s unable to leave the corporate world right now to live out her dream of owning a restaurant, something brilliant clicked and she made us an irresistible offer: for the same amount we spend on a typical take-out meal, she will cook for us instead!

Believe me, for her cooking, that price is an absolute BARGAIN.

So last night, we received our first taste of divinity: generous portions of spaghetti and meatballs in a special sauce that would even have Rocco’s Mama salivating, with flavorful steamed veggies on the side to ward off the scurvy.

My nutrient deprived senses, dulled from so many years of junk overload, were revived instantly.

And what do you know: I’m convinced I’ve already lost a full two ounces!

I foresee a raise in her future and leftovers for lunch in mine.

* DD: Never spoil a good story with facts.

On the first of every month (and that, as we’ve already established up there, is today), I start off by waking up really, really, really early, which is usually at 1 o’clock. That would be P.M., by the way.

Unless I’m feeling really, really, really motivated – which is rare and, when it does strike, very fleeting – then I heave myself up at the crack of … *shudders*… noon.

I make my coffee and proceed to sip it in a reclining position.

This pose, I’ve found, is by far the most efficient for the solemn business of Resolution Making. It’s remarkable how easy it is to think inspiring and profound thoughts about say, exercise, when one is comfortably sprawled out on the couch.

So it is while I’m there, flat on my back, that I get all fired up in my mind about how I’m going to leap into a health routine that very day.

And before long, I can actually see myself, right there in my mind’s eye, sprinting and shedding the pounds with every painless stride that I take.

Let me tell you, it’s heartbreakingly beautiful how I run. It is completely effortless. And I’m all fitness and grace and agility and speed with not even the slightest sign of fatigue or sweat or achy joints or wiggly body parts.

And of course, I needn’t even tell you that I’m also decked out in full glamorous make-up and sporting a sleek and cooperative hairdo throughout this entire marathon-of-the-mind.

Behold, for I look like a Nike commercial.

As I fly past that slow-poke, Marion Jones, leaving her to eat my dust, I begin to hear the “Chariots of Fire” music and hordes of roaring fans chanting my name (“Run, Red, Ruuuuuun!”) and egging me on as I morph from a whale into a waif in two seconds flat, my brand new bony behind soaring across the finish line.

It’s only when my coffee is finished that I snap out of the fantasy.

And by that time, I’m exhausted. And hungry. (‘Cause it takes a lot out of you, these resolution-fantasy things, you know?)

So I then know that I have to procrastinate the exercise until after eating, because according to People Who Know about These Things, it’s very dangerous to exercise on an empty stomach. (Yes, even for swimming they – these People Who Know – have established that our mothers have been wrong all these years and that swimming on a full stomach will very logically help you to float better!) These Experts are quite clear that one needs to eat in order to get the fuel one needs to exercise.

Thus I eat. And because I’m really obedient to the Experts, I then eat some more. (One can’t be too careful.)

And before I know it, the day is over and I realize with a pang of regret (“Hooray!” she screams and downs another pint of ice cream) that now I’ll have to wait a whole month until the next First Day of the Month rolls around.

“So why don’t you simply start on the second?” I hear one wise-ass curious and interested reader ask.

And I pretend I didn’t hear said reader, what with the Chariots of Fire score still ringing in my ears.

Seriously though, I’m happy to report that today has been a bit more productive than other First of the Months of yore.

Sure, I started off as usual with the coffee and the reclining and the fantasy, but – and this must be a sure sign that Fantasy Me is already getting fitter – I finished the fantasy racing-and-getting-skinny a bit sooner than usual this afternoon, so I actually had time to fit in some real exercise of my own today, outside of these flights of fancy. And you’d better be VERY proud of me because I actually did the exercise I set out to do:

Instead of walking, I ran to the refrigerator for my second helping of ice cream!

Phew! Now it's time for a nap.