Gunt be gone!

I stand in front of a mirror in my living room and put my arms on my hips.

Not Bad...

My arms are getting slimmer. The cellulite has decreased dramatically (thank god!) and I'm starting to see a semblance of my former face again.

Welcome back Karen...

It's amazing how long it takes to burn off a few pounds once you're over the age of 30.

**Note to all women in their 20s reading this and thinking I was just a big fat lazy slob and it will never happen to you: It will.

There was a time, when I was 28, that I clearly remember bawling to my friends because I was 133lbs and believed I was clinically obese. It did have something to do with my BMI more so than my size. But, in any case -- that was many many moons ago...

"Yer ready?" says a disgruntled Consuela as she turns the corner decked out in her latex tights and Menudo t-shirt. I'm bringing her with me to the gym today. She did try to raise a ruckus, making excuses that she had laundry to do. But who was she kidding? We both know that I'm taking her away from her favourite Telenovella that comes on at 11am. If she actually did some work once in a while -- she might not need the gym.

"Yep!" I say enthusiastically. I'm riding the high of my slimmer arms. I've been painstakingly running everyday -- and although I loathe almost every second of it; I've noticed results. So, I'll run until I've sweat out ever last drop of anger, hurt, frustration and regrets.

It's so much better to sweat it out than to cry it out.

"Come on!" I say and usher her out the door.

We walk to the gym in silence. It's a quiet morning. Slightly cloudy. No one is really around. I'm sauntering. Consuela is a few yards behind me. She's hustling, but her chubby little legs can only cover so much ground. I look back at her for a moment and wonder how the hell she managed to find a pair of black Lycra tights to squeeze her legs into? I'm always amazed at the audacity that some fat women have when it comes to clothing. Her legs look like two German sausages in a plastic wrap that has been restricted too tight in parts.

I'm waiting for her to catch up with me. In the meantime, I check out my gunt in the reflection of the store window I'm standing in front of. It's much slimmer. Barely noticeable. Not much longer before it's completely gone and men stop offering me seats on the subway because they think I'm preggers.

"Mia, keep walking. I iz fine!" Consuela pants from a few steps away.

She looks absolutely ridiculous. She has one of those 1980s sweatbands around her head -- and her thick curly hair is held back in a yellow banana clip. I'm surprised I'm not more embarrassed to be seen with her.

"Hurry up!" I yell at her. I figure the hustle will be a good warm up before I put her on the treadmill. I smile so she knows that I'm not being mean; but she doesn't give a rat's ass and instead pops up her fat little middle finger to remind me just how enthused she is about this whole venture.

Sigh.

"OK" I tell her, once we're at the gym "just press this button to increase the speed, and that one to decrease it. And, if you need to take a break -- the red button will stop the treadmill right away. Alright?"

"Got it!" she says, and rolls her eyes. We begin to walk, side by side on our treadmills. I watch Consuela for a moment. She has a large enviro bag with her that is filled to the brim. I have no idea what she has in it -- but it's hanging off one arm of the treadmill.

This should be interesting...

I begin to jog -- hating every minute of it; but knowing the other 23 and a half hours of the day will be much better for it. Out of the corner of my left eye I can see Consuela increasing the walking speed of her treadmill from catatonic to snail's pace.

I didn't even know they moved that slow...

A few moments later, while the sweat is really pouring down, I notice Consuela grab something from her bag. Funny that she should need anything since her treadmill is moving slower than her normal walking pace. I watch as she grabs a little hand towel to dab her forehead.

"What the hell are you doing?" I pant at her, "You're not even sweating!"

"Reeelax, Mia" she says, and waives me away with her other hand. She then proceeds to pull out a Tupperware container of perogies and places it on the little shelf in front of her. If that weren't bad enough, she then pulls out a bottle of Perrier - plops a pink straw in it, and begins to have a picnic lunch while walking slower than a cripple.

I roll my eyes in frustration. There's no use. Consuela is, and always will be - Consuela. Unique. Rebellious. Dependable.

She turns to me and gives me a big smile while sipping her Perrier, "Yer want some?" she asks. I nod my head 'no'. She shrugs her shoulders and begins to hum some sort of folk song from her home land of Ecuador. She knows she only has to put in 3 or 4 more minutes before she can get back to her precious Esmerelda con Amore.

I turn my attention away from Consuela because the crumbs from her Doritos crunching on the treadmill is starting to grate at my nerves.

I think she accomplished what she set out to do. This is definitely the last time I bring her to the gym.





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