Borrowed Time

Sometimes you just have to let your hair down, go hog wild. Yesterday morning, when my workout partner suggested -- about seven minutes into it -- that we finish our session at Starbucks over some coffee and her homemade Christmas cookies, I shook out my pony tail, grabbed my coat without a moment's hesitation and off we went.

Hold on to your seats; it gets even wilder. There were seven varieties of cookies -- SEVEN!! -- and I sampled each one. No workout. Seven kinds of cookies, well before noon. Without guilt, without regret. I even made a conscious effort to not be conscious of the love handles that seem to be spilling even further over my workout pants this season, love handles I'd love to blame on the holidays except I have yet to be invited to a single party. But really, I've barely noticed them at all, and really, they don't bother me.

Okay maybe they bother me just a little. But apparently not enough to do much about them. Which makes perfect sense, as the official countdown begins today to the Maya Apocalypse on December 21, 2012. With only one year remaining to indulge in earthly delights, bring on the cookies and the cakes and the potato latkes that literally moisturized my skin from the inside out last night. (Happy Chanukah by the way.)

Our conversation at Starbucks yesterday morning was as enjoyable as it was predictable. My salivary glands kicked into high gear as my partner described the latest seventeen course gourmet feast she had whipped up for her family. My stomach started flip flopping as I described my latest efforts to ignore the signs that I will, indeed, be living out my golden years in a trailer (forgetting, momentarily, that with only a year to go, it's all a moot point). Our trainer -- who needed very little convincing to join us in our delinquency -- was armed, as always, with scripture passages and plenty of advice on giving it all over to Jesus. Whatever "it" is. I usually ignore his preaching, but this time I paid attention. If it's true that none of us will be waking up a year from tomorrow, I might as well start making friends with the guy. On the off chance I end up in his neck of the woods.

In any case, while I'm letting my hair down and going hog wild, I might as well give it all over to somebody, the "it" that interrupts my sleep and causes all my teeth to crack. Giving it all over to the lawyers certainly hasn't worked, and Jesus probably charges a lot less.