I fight every day. I scratch, gnaw, bite, gouge and kick my way just to make it through with my sanity intact on a daily basis.

I am a fighter. I hate giving up, though I may occasionally just take a break from a project/activity. Still, that’s not the same as actually giving up. It may be a fine line between the two, but it’s there. I just realized how much of a struggle I’m in to lose a hundred (or so) pounds. It’s actually pretty scary–more so than any horror movie. (Except those with *shudder* slugs in them.)

It’s hard to get and stay motivated. I have to find some sort of carrot to dangle in front of my nose… I know. When I lose 25 pounds, I’ll get some new clothes. 50? More new clothes–and maybe a bigger MP3 player. At 75, I’ll undergo a complete makeover. When I reach that golden “100″, I’ll treat myself to a trip to Disneyland. Or something like that. It might be nice just to go someplace warm and become one with the sand and the piercing aqua blue water. It’d be sweet to have a good looking cabana boy offer me a margarita with one of those tiny little parasols.

This exercise/incentive program is going to have to be on hold until November, though, because of training. It’s just too chaotic right now (and I’d be setting myself up for failure) to start it. My workplace has a gym…and I’m going to sign up again. I quit last time because I was too self conscious.

This time, I resolve not to care if people stare at me as I lava lamp my way to fitness on the treadmill.

Gyms are for fat people too, after all.