To Lose or Not to Lose? What Would Oprah Do?

It may be time to get serious about dropping a few pounds. I’m getting more e-mails from The Chubby Farm than from that guy pitching ShamWows.

I could stand to lose a pound or two or 10 or 20 but an e-mail from The Chubby Farm looks like an invitation to sweat to the oldies in a corn field. I’m more likely to run on a treadmill than ride a John Deere, especially if coaxed there by Raoul, a hunky trainer equipped with Cabernet, chocolates and a ripped chest.

It’s not as if I haven’t given weight loss a shot. Or two. Or three. Ok, signing up for Weight Watchers is an annual event and Gold’s Gym has issued an all-points-bulletin for my whereabouts. The only working out I do is weight lifting – carrying cases of wine from the car to the house. My idea of jogging is tailing Pinot, Grigio and Bongo out the door after I tell them it’s time to bathe Bongo.

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