All right.  That’s it.  No more excuses.  I am getting into fighting shape.  I’m dropping all my fears right here, right now, and I’m going for it. 
What’s the worst that could happen?  I’d rather obsess about sex than whine about my weight.
By the time my next marathon rolls around, I have the potential to carry one less gallon of milk for those 26.2 miles.  That sounds good to me.  I want to feel great in my clothes.  I want to feel great without my clothes.  I want to feel great – period.  Shopping should be fun, not agonizing. 
I can’t do anything to prevent wrinkles.  I can’t stop gravity.  But goddamn it, I will not bow gracefully to the battle of the bulge.  I won’t.  I just won’t.
I reclaim my body.  It has served me so very well this past year, performing in amazing ways (ways I never thought possible for a non-athlete like me) so that I could heal my mind and my soul.  Now it’s time to love my body, which frankly is a much more daunting challenge.

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