I often claim that I have no regrets, that life happens and it all works out in the end.  Like, if I hadn’t had that accident that nearly amputated my leg, I wouldn’t have received training for a new job and I wouldn’t have gotten a new job at the firm where I eventually met my future husband.  Except I don’t really mean that.  I do have regrets.  Lots of them.  And for that incident in particular (because the accident was in fact my fault), I always think that we would have met up some other way, if it were truly our destiny to be together.  I’m a romantic but not so much of a masochist that I think I should have had to injure myself to meet the man of my dreams.

I don’t wallow in my regrets (at least not often), but I try to learn from them.  Like, when I gained a chunk of weight because (in part) we had moved from an urban area where my feet were my primary mode of transport to the suburbs where the Almighty Automobile rules the streets.  I didn’t make the necessary effort to keep my weight in check so while adjusting (badly) to the odd concept that I had to make time to walk, my clothes got tighter and tighter.

That weight gain was regrettable because there came a time when I needed very much to feel sexy and attractive, and I was anything but.  Just roll me in flour …

Adding insult to fattiness, I’ve had to double-down with exercising and dieting.  I’ve got my waist back along with a more presentable butt, but I still have a long way to go to get back to my pre-suburbs weight (if ever).  At least I don’t feel as self-conscious in downward facing dog as I used to.

Lesson learned is that when the weight comes off, it must stay off.  Think black lacy thongs.  Not an attractive thought where you’re 20+ pounds overweight.  So the weight is being shed slowly but surely, and one at a time the thongs are moving from the bottom of my underwear drawer to the top.