I told you.

All of you faithful short hair scientists know that I’ve been making a weak assed attempt to lose some weight over the past few months. The real focus has been to eat and live in a more healthy way — not just lose weight. The noble thought would be that if I focused on being more healthy, then the pounds, or lubs — as I affectionately refer to them — would melt off over the course of about six months. Uh…nope. And I’m not going to point any fingers at anyone but myself for this pseudo attempt to gain back a body I haven’t seen in the mirror for about 15 years. Time flies when you’re stuffing your pie hole. Ahem…

But you also know that I have been exercising fairly diligently. Not as much as I could, mind you, because well, I dunno why. I sit in front of this thing all day talking to you? Because I have that food blog and I cook food that isn’t always conducive to anything but making sure our taste buds are extremely happy. That would mean our waistbands aren’t. Happy.

You would think I’d give myself a break. You know, like since I’m exercising, eat more intelligently. Sheesh. Not. I’ve decided I need some kind of an electronic device that is strapped to an appendage somewhere — you know, kind of like Lindsay Lohan’s anklet. My device would be a talking device. It would let me know — in a very perky voice (NOT Rachael Ray, well, okay, Rachael) — that as I burned calories, I had earned particular types of food I might woolf down enjoy later.

Okay, so imagine with me a sec:

I’m walking: Sweat, huff…..trudge, trudge, trudge…I wonder how far I’ve gone? Puff…huff. Ugh….I can’t stand this…oof…

Calorie monitoring device:

You have burned enough calories to earn one charbroiled Porterhouse smothered in carmelized onions and sauteed portobellos finished with a port wine reduction…

You have burned enough calories to earn a slice of a decadent boca negra served in a pool of raspberry coulis and topped with a mascarpone cream…

You only have to burn 12,000 more calories to make up for what you ate yesterday…

If you walk for the next two weeks straight, you’ll only put a dent in the calories you consumed eating that biscuit glace aux noisettes yesterday and the day before…

Okay, so maybe that isn’t such a great idea. But I have been exercising. You know I’ve been challenging myself and struggling a bit to overcome some internal squeamishness about swimming in the ocean. But I thought I’d show you the route we took this past Sunday, and the one we’ll be taking again tomorrow. Mind you, we’ve also been getting up at 5:30 to do pool laps for 30 minutes in between the ocean gigs.

It’s pretty far, isn’t it? When my friends said we’d be swimming to The Shores, I thought, Uh, I don’t think so. I figured I’d swim out part way with them, and then turn back by myself and wait. There was much discussion at dinner Saturday night about where cars would be parked, what time we’d arrive, who would pick up whom, and all kinds of other nonsense. The truly tough part is remembering the next day what we decided to do. Thank goodness the MoH is always tuned in and is able to steer me in the right direction. He sets the alarm, and he confirms what I vaguely remember about the previous night’s conversation. The MoH doesn’t drink wine like the rest of us.

So two of us finally pick up the third who has her car parked at The Shores. The three of us travel back to The Cove and make a big production about realizing that all we could take with us was our largesse and our fins. We even had to figure out where to hide the car key. No cell phones, no camera, no bathing suit cover up…..Ugh. That meant we had to walk by people sitting on patios of some very chic restaurants enjoying Sunday breakfast. Thank goodness it was still very early — 8:15 — and that my fins are quite large. I strategically held them so that they’d dangle in front of my upper thighs, and then averted my gaze away from the touristy on lookers. We walked quickly toward The Cove.

The water was a teeth jarring 66 degrees.

The water was much calmer than the last time we went out. Less sea grass. I don’t want to discuss the kelp. The way it crawls along your legs as you pass over it. I know. I said I wasn’t going to talk about it. I get used to the water temperature fairly quickly, so that isn’t horrible. What’s creepy about the whole thing is that you can’t see the bottom once you really get out there. And if you think about that submarine canyon beneath, the one that sends absolutely frigid upwellings you have to swim through, gasping in surprise…the one that’s about 40 feet deep near shore and reaches depths of more than 900 ft. about a mile off the beach. That one. Totally and completely creepy. When images of creatures from the deep and very large fish with sharp teeth arise, we don’t say anything about them aloud. We talk about “stuff” — anything to ease the nerves. And we paddle faster.About half way across, my friend whose car was parked at The Shores realized that she hadn’t brought the key.

So the rest of the swim was spent organizing for effort on how to get back to the car at The Cove.

Swim back? Uh….Nope.

Walk back? In our swim suits with all that traffic? People commenting about it not being whale-watching season. Uh-uh.

Okay, then. How about a couple of unanswered collect calls to the MoH from a pay phone. You gotta love Caller ID.

But finally, the Life Guard came to our rescue with a trusty cell. The huzbinks arrived not quite on a white charger (because we had caused a detour from their golf date–scuzethehellouttaus) and took us back to the car at The Cove. The swim had taken an hour. With wiggly legs and swaddled derriers in damp cover-ups, we walked to a coffee place and snarfed down three breakfast burritos and lattes.

I can’t figure out why in hell I even bothered to go to the salon last week. At this rate, I’ll be back to square one Hag-ette status in a couple of weeks.

But will I have a great tan? Hell no. The sun doesn’t shine at this time of the year in Paradise. Are you kidding? It’s all a big lie.