I'm sure my quote/unquote friends will try to deny it, but I'm gonna give it to you straight. The water park. Sheer terror. Please see the photo evidence below. Look at those innocent faces. You would never suspect they would force me against my will to risk life and limb.

But LOOK at that water slide, people! It was at least eight stories high. At least. And it was the first thing Kara and Nancy wanted to go on. Ok, the second thing. First we went into the wave pool. And I'm thinking, "This water park thing isn't going to be so bad." They were obviously lulling me into a false sense of security. Because as soon as my pruny toes stepped out of that wave pool, the bullying and peer pressure began. Peer pressure is more powerful than I thought. Because before I knew what was happening, I was climbing the eight stories to a ride called High Extreme. You know how I said I wouldn't go on anything that had the word "high" in its name? Yeah right. And the word "extreme" should have given me a clue.

Mind you, I asked almost everyone in line at the bottom of the stairs if they'd been on the slide, including the barely-7-year-old in front of me. Most of them had...and they looked relatively unscathed.  One girl, someone I would have wanted to sit next to in the event of an aircraft emergency, actually described it as a "slow" slide with "no drops." She was a vicious liar.

But before we get to the terror that would change my life, character and childbearing potential, let's talk about the climb to the top. Eight stories. At least. On wet, see-thru concrete steps that swayed more and more the closer we got to the top. I started to hyperventilate on Step #187. I tried to run back down. But Kara and Nancy blocked my path.

So we FINALLY make it to the top. You have to wait on the stairs for a while, teetering on the edge, until it's your turn on one of two slides. As I'm standing there, I realize the only thing that prevents you from flying right over the side is a few sheets of fiberglass and centrifugal force. In one last attempt to calm my fears, I asked the lifeguard...a kid with a sweet face named Christian...if the slide was fast. He scoffed and assured me it was not. LIAR!

Have you ever seen Christmas Vacation? With Chevy Chase? When he sleds down the hill so fast he leaves sparks? Then you have a visual. I have no idea how Kara is faring on the slide next to me. But I'm rocketing headfirst into dizzying oblivion. PS...There were three...THREE...major drops. The kind that reacquaint your stomach with your throat. It was T-E-R-R-O-R. When we got to the bottom, I was shaking so hard I didn't even see Kara face plant off her slide. Or notice that my newly polished tootsies now had not a smidge of polish on.

Things I could have done in 12 weeks: Lose 60 pounds (What? They do it on Biggest Loser!). Take up knitting. And construct matching full body sweaters for the Prius and Shih Tzu. Discover the answer to world peace. End world hunger. Learn the steps to Lord of the Dance. Roam the desert for 40 days looking for Jesus. Or a burning bush. Or at least the answer to all life's questions. 

The truth is...I was sure I was going to change my life in the 12 weeks I was doing absolutely nothing. I envisioned working out four hours a day and drinking bright green macrobiotic smoothies. Instead, I've been sharing a blood supply with the sofa.  

And I realized something. If you aren't ready to make a major life change, nothing is going to motivate you to do it. And if you are, nothing is going to keep you from it. But this is how it sounded  in my head: "IF YOU AREN'T READY TO MAKE A MAJOR LIFE CHANGE, NOTHING IS GOING TO MOTIVATE YOU TO DO IT. AND IF YOU ARE, NOTHING IS GOING TO KEEP YOU FROM IT!!!"

Let's face it...you could be the CEO of a Fortune 500 company who sleeps 3 hours a night and make it to your fighting weight if your were really driven to do it. Really driven. And I have to say, although it was a bummer of massive proportions (see last post) to think I'd failed at accomplishing my goal by the end of summer vacay, it gives me hope to really grasp, for the first time, that when it clicks, it won't matter what hour or day or week or month it happens. Everything before that moment will just fade away. 

Speaking of fighting weight, I ordered a punching bag. A big one. Not the lame water filled kind (I hope I'm not offending anyone). And not BOB...the "target torso" that looks a little like a half naked Lou Ferrigno. If I put that thing on my outside patio the neighbors would call 911 before Round 1 was over. No, I ordered what I thought was going to be a simple but professional and lifetime guaranteed 100 pound hanging bag. With stand. Only, when the scary guys with the big necks delivered it...it was HUGE. And now HAS to sit on my patio because it will not fit anywhere in my apartment.

Did I mention I took muay thai kickboxing for five years before moving to California? Lemme tell you. It is liberating to beat the you-know-what outta something. I haven't christened it yet (Maybe you can help me name it?). I'm waiting for Kara to get here first. She's coming tomorrow!  From New York New York!

So besides beating the you-know-what out of a yet-to-be named bag, the tenured-librarian-and-head-of-the-science-library-at-a-prestigious-university and I are doing what every educated woman in her 30's loves to do. We're going to a water park!

That's right...in less than 48 hours...we're heading to Raging Waters. With my other partner-in-crime who often makes guest appearances in the blog...Nancy. The last time I went to a water park, I ended up beaching myself in front of 150 people on a racing slide called the Kamakazi.  More on that later. Here's hoping this experience will be less traumatic. Kara has already declared she won't go out until I've held her upside down and dipped her in a vat of sunscreen. And I'm telling you now...I am NOT going on anything described on a sign as "high," terrifying," "thrilling," (codeword for terrifying) or anything that involves me attaching a bungee cord to myself. It's the lazy river and the Kamakazi, take 2, for me. 

My lobster self and I will be back to tell you every embarrassing detail..mine and theirs. Stay tuned!

And PS...thanks for the BEST cookie-dough-eating pity party I've ever had! You all rock for sharing your hearts and stories with me. MWAH! 

My grandmother told me once that if I ate one more bite of cookie dough, I was gonna get worms. I was eight. And to that point, had led a sheltered life. The only other time I'd heard anyone talk about worms was in reference to the neighbors' dog, who I'd seen on more than one occasion doing figure 8's on their living room carpet. I remember contemplating for a brief moment, spoon of raw Nestle Tollhouse goodness in one hand. But decided I was willing to risk it...even if it meant having to downsize my social calendar temporarily so I could stay close to home, and my grandmother's oriental rug. That's how much I loved...correction, love...raw cookie dough. What do you do when you love food THAT much?

Whoever said no news was good news was a big fat liar. Because if I had good news, I would be writing every.single.day. In fact, the only time you know there is trouble is if I'm quiet. And lately, I've been holed up in my apartment like friggin' Boo Radley. Minus the scissors. I'm gonna start ordering my groceries online so I never have to leave the house.  

I was convinced that the 60 pounds would be a distant memory by now. But I've only lost a third of it.  I fluctuate between 20 and 27 pounds lost.  I fear I'm gonna look like Crystal Gayle before I get around to booking Hair Appointment #6.  

Please tell me why. Why someone with a master's degree who graduated with highest honors and made a 4.0 the last two years of her academic life cannot figure this out? Why I would rather spend my 12 weeks of summer vacation watching Real Housewives marathons than train for a marathon? Why the thought of spending yet another year in flowing Chico's traveler's pants doesn't scare me straight?

The words "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all" have been ringing in my head every time over the past three weeks that I've started to write this entry. OMG...I hate that saying! But the last thing I want to do is to be THAT girl...that voice that chimes in with all the other voices that claim weight loss is this impossible, elusive thing out there. Because I absolutely don't believe that! I'm just having a colossal (but temporary) pity party for one and wonder if anyone wants to wallow in misery with me. Please let there be someone out there who a)shares my love for raw cookie dough and/or TV marathons and b)will get down in the mud with me and wallow. Just one really good, smelly story? Please post your comments below. :)  

Dear diet industry,

You are maddening. And more confusing than a season and three reunion episodes of Real Housewives. "Don't eat carbs." "No, eat the carbs." "Don't eat fat." "No, no, you gotta have fat...'good' fats." "Don't eat egg yolks." "Eat the damn yolks!" Blah blah blah. And don't even get me started on the fitness meshugana. I just saw a commercial for panties with built-in butt enhancements. I thought we wanted the junk outta the trunk. When did this happen?  

You make me want to go around talking to people with my finger and scary voice. "Redrum."   

And now you're hitting me where it hurts...in the space reserved in my heart just for dairy products. You know how much I love my skim milk, Greek yogurt, cheese...cottage, string and Jarlsberg...and did I mention skim milk? You know I might have been a baby calf named Peanut in another life...and want one of those silver milk machines you see in college dorms and soda shops installed in my dream kitchen someday.  

Now you wanna tell me dairy is bad for me? PS...thanks a lot for sending me the angry vegan who tried to win her argument by informing everyone within earshot that there's pus in milk. In her most condescending tone. "So I guess you want to drink milk infected with pus?!?"

It almost made me want to put the bottle down. Almost.

Then, I met Hank. Someone I've been waiting 36 years to meet. Not because he is a hottie from New Zealand who looks and sounds like a young Paul Hogan (who is Australian, but still). No...Hank is engaged. But it's what he does for a living. He is a dairy farm consultant. Let me say that again. He is a dairy farm consultant. A hot dairy farm consultant from New Zealand who spent an hour with me answering every question I ever wanted to know about the dairy process. In a New Zealand accent. Homogenization. Pasteurization. The shiny cylindrical trucks you see on the road that are filled with milk. PS...did you know they aren't refrigerated (although the milk is put in at just above freezing point)? And that the drivers can't stop once it's filled? I wanted to ask how they use the bathroom, but thought it might be too much. In any event, they never have to drive more than five hours to drop it off. Maybe they just hold it. Or use an empty plastic Coke bottle. How will I live with the mystery?

PS, angry vegan girl...the pus thing is so NOT true!

PSS...did you know they have milking robots now? Look!

So, diet industry, while you are off fracturing the masses, I'm going to look for a Hank and a dairy farm of my very own. Of course, I'll have to hire someone to wake up at 4:30 to do the milkin.' I'll come in around 11:00 to pet/frolic with the cows. And hand out empty plastic Coke bottles. You know, just in case.  

Interesting night. First, I almost got arrested by the Po-Po. The Target Po-Po. In the underground parking garage. I sometimes take Willoughby there to "practice" his heel-sit-stay-stand-come...after I shop. It's clean and quiet - nobody ever comes down there - and there's lots of room to practice. Well, they must be watching in a secret booth somewhere. Because we weren't down there two minutes before the Po-Po (ok he was just a security guard) came down on his Segway to politely interrogate me. I think he thought I was walking Willoughby...in the parking garage. I wanted to say "Listen Segway Man, I am a Southern girl with a master's degree and a dog who requires ridiculous amounts of grooming. Do I look like the kind of girl who would know someone, be it human or canine, who would relieve himself in a parking garage?" 

Then, there was kismet at the grocery store. I pulled into the checkout lane in my workout clothes and plopped down my purchase: two slices of watermelon as big as my head. And who pulled in behind me? A cute guy wearing red plaid pajama bottoms carrying nothing but a container of California rolls. For a moment, I expected the heavens to open. Had God put the man in the red plaid pajama bottoms in my path for a reason? Were we meant to share sushi and melon for all eternity? Apparently not, because the hottie in the PJ's didn't ask for my number. But it was definitely interesting. PS...If you're ever looking for something to do at 10:00 on a Friday night, go to the grocery store. It's a singles schmorgasbord.  

One of these days, when I'm least expecting it, I'm going to have my meet-cute. According to Urban Dictionary, the meet-cute is a "scenario in which two individuals are brought together in some unlikely, zany, destined-to-fall-in-love-and-be-together-forever sort of way (the more unusual, the better)." Amen, Urban Dictionary. Amen. The more unusual, the better. 

I'm thinking of all the boys I've loved before (who've traveled in and out my door). I met my first love standing in front of the kitchen sink of his grandparent's house, obsessively measuring the water I had to drink for the day. Hmmm...I'm trying to think of how I met the others. I met three of them at...(yawning)...work. Another one I served a Sunrise Scrambler to when I waited tables at an all night diner. The ex-fiance was a result of AOL Instant Messenger (remember when that was big?!?) after knowing him and his cherry red Mustang in high school. Then, I (gulp) dated a friend of his who confessed his love for me several months after the fiance and I said ixnay to the arriagemay. And then I ran one guy off the road with my car. Definitely a meet-cute. But the end? Not so cute. 

What about you? Any meet-cutes out there?