I enjoyed my yearly physical on Thursday. (Sarcasm, ladies.) I adore my doctor. He's a lovely, sensible fellow with dry wit and a very comfortable bedside manner. He's always very polite. 

'Ok now Madam, here we go... cold, cold, cold.'

Once you've experienced the loss of all dignity and pooped on the delivery table during the expulsion of a 7pound 8oz baby (I'm over it now, that was six years ago... I think my husband suffered more shock at that moment than I), a cold speculum and an exam attendent (nurse) are nothing. 

Spread 'em. Yeesh.

Much more disheartening was my pre-exam. Blood pressure - fabulous (132/74). Height 5'9 and 1/2 inches tall - (yes, most people think I am taller... it's my shoes.) Weight. (Oh for the love of - Ay - yi - yi... mamma mia.) The attending nurse compares this years weight with my weight at my last physical and we discover that I weigh 15 pounds more now.

Wow.

Whoop di do, you say. Kim, you look great the way you are. What's 15 pounds, you say? That's no big deal.

Set 15 one pound bars of butter on your kitchen counter and then tell me it's no big deal. That is one pound of butter stuck to my ass every month (plus!. 3500 calories. 16 ounces. Every month for a year. And not just caked to my ass - but around my thighs, my arms, my belly. My chin. 

Ugh.

Not to mention - my omentum. (Watch Dr.Oz on Oprah anyone? - you'll know what a omentum is...) My heart. My pancreas.

What is it about seeing the actual number in black and white on the scale in front of you that is like someone punched you in the gut?

Bam. You're overweight by twenty pounds more than you should be. KA-POW! How's that feel? What's the matter, Kim? You look pale.

No shit, Dick Tracy.

Actually, I'm not surprised at all. I knew I'd weigh in heavier than I've been for a couple of years. I could feel it in my skirts. My pants. My shorts. My shirts. My bra is fuller.

Argh.

There is noone to blame but myself. Last year at this time I was running 4 - 5 times a week. As soon as I got crazy-busy-obsessed in my business - the first sacrifice was my exercise time. Indeed, it was a poor choice. No motion and extra calories (all those 'business' lunches) and pretty soon my good fitting 11/12 is a solid size 14.

Please remember that although I don't love the number on my pant size - my concern is less about the size of my booti-li-cious and WAAAAY more about my longevity and health. I want to be healthy and fit instead of saggy and baggy. I want to be able to kick the ass of a woman half my age. (in endurance... I'm a lover not a fighter.) 

Could you imagine HOW I'd look if I gained 13 pounds a year for the next two years? I'd be a size 15/16 at my next birthday and a 17/18 for my BIG 4-0.

Gulp. NO WAY! 

I refuse to be another size larger by my 39 birthday. If I can lose a pound a month - AND resume my activity level (which is faaaaaaaar more important to me than a lower pant size) I'll be the healthier and happier for it. 

And so will my pancreas.

So - here's my commitment.... Beginning July 1, I will move my body a minimum of four times per week. (I'll walk, roller blade, bike and have a mini-rebounder... and I will start back at the gym in September.) I'd like to say that I will commit to some sort of weight loss program - but that just sets me up for failure.... however, I will make good daily food choices.

And once a month I'll keep you posted on the progress. (If there is any.) 

Starting now.... With my measurements. Bust 40" Waist 37" Hip 42"

Oh my GAWD - that is embarrassing!  (Apparently, I'm more coke bottle than hour glass.)

Not to be discouraged... here are the five things I will do in an effort to take better care of myself.

1) Start writing a food journal. (Maybe it will encourage me to keep track of my gas milage as well.)

2) I will drink more water.

3) I hereby give up pop. (I like S.Pelligrino and fruit juice anyhow.)

4) I will move my body a minimum of four times per week.

5) I will treat myself with patience and loving kindness - and attempt to come up with a relaxation and therapuetic reward system for myself. (Massage, yoga, meditation and infrared sauna.)

It has been proven that in order to make lasting changes in any area of your life, you must be at a point psychologically where the 'pain' of staying where you are is greater than the 'pain' of making the change. Change is hard.

But ANY woman who has ever been 15 pounds heavier (or lighter) knows what their pain threshold is and once they've hit it.

I hit mine on Thursday.

I celebrated my 38th birthday last Saturday.

Woo-hoo me. I bought myself a pair of Tommy Hilfiger jeans from the Hudson's Bay Co. in Banff - and ONLY because they were a) long enough for my 35" inseam and b) because they were on sale for $55 - which I felt was reasonable for denim (given that the price tag originally said $109).

I received loving phone calls from my kids - and from three lovely friends that I adore... wishing me happy birthday and joyous moments for the new year and I relished the wonderful way being loved by my friends made me feel.

Then I came home - back to planet reality - and discovered a few things about my adult birthday years.

For example: One might consider the fact that I quite possibly have used up half of my life. Maybe more. 38 x 2 = 76. It is entirely possible that I will live to be 76. Maybe even 86.

So - I get back to my office Monday after time away with the man of my dreams (my husband) - start returning phone calls and emails to clients saying: "Sorry for the delay in getting back to you, I was away for a few days celebrating my birthday. Ya-da, ya-da, ya-da...'

One of my clients/acquaintances/friends (male) shoots me back an email that says - 'Your birthday?! 40 Bones or 45??'

Now obviously, he hasn't had lessons in the art of conversation with women. Especially women over 35. Either that or he is a horrible judge of age. Or he was out to tease me - which could be, too. (We'll see who's the jokester - next time he leaves the room when we're visiting I am going to spit in his coffee.)

Why was I insulted?  Slightly. And I was shocked. Do I really look over forty?
Forty five???

More importantly - why do I think that there is something wrong with being over forty? - my sister Jenna, Alyson and Darlene are all over forty and I think they rock. My husband is 44 and he's totally hot. He's got great skin and I love the salt and pepper in his hair...

WHY do women feel such pressure and disdain for aging?

Seriously - that one comment has me considering chemical peels and shock therapy on the muscles in my face.

Or maybe it's my hair. Short and fuddy duddy.

I try to think 'who gives a shit?' but I give a shit. I refuse to think that getting older means the prime of my life has passed. I think I look better now that I did at 24. (Yeesh - if you saw photos of me then, you'd agree) 

I want to be 48 thinking I am MORE fabulous than I was a 38. However in the meantime, I don't want someone to think I am 45 when I am only 38.

I'm fighting the urge to run out and buy tooth whitener, anti-aging cream and crank dance music on the CD player in my mini-van while wearing low rise skinny jeans and layering my tank tops.

I will be okay. 38 isn't dead.

Yet.

Here I am 'broadcasting' live from the Chateau Fairmont Lake Louise nestled in the forest. The location is over 110 years old and the entire hotel is essentially exquisite. Everything you see and touch is the essence of rich opulence. The art, the shops, the food, the PRICES.

I've had the most marvelous day. I slept like a rock in a King size bed with the window open next to my head, high enough over the earth that the crisp snowy mountain air poured in and healed me while I slept.

We jumped in a canoe and went across the lake and back. It is the most miraculous shade of blue; like the tropical waters you see in postcards of places you'll never get to. Just our luck, when we checked in the young woman said yesterday was the first day the ice was off the lake this year...

Then we hiked almost 8 kilometres up the side of the mountain (my delight: I pushed myself to hike higher and further than I would ever have gone before due to my fear of being grotesquely mauled by a grizzly bear...) - high up into the dense bush on stiff mountain peaks where the paths are rocky and treacherous and the snow remains. When the clouds misted over us and snow appeared imminent, I forced my husband to turn around.

We came back and grabbed a caramel mocha, ate dark espresso chocolate and then went for a swim - actually he swam (I HATE pools) and I meditated at the edge listening to the gentle splash of the water.

Then I indulged in a glass of wine in a tub that is big enough for all four of my children with mirrors all around.

I was initially horrified to see myself in 3D - like I want to witness my cellulite and stretch marks in surround sound... However hooray... be it known that when the room is worth 400 a night - the mirror make your butt actually look not entirely terrible. I was shocked.

Tonight I am off to Walliser Stube for dinner at 8pm. Living in the lap of luxury - feeling horribly out of place - but completely content to fake it til I make it.

Tomorrow I am hoping the rain will stay away and we can hike to the top of Johnson's canyon.
A great way to celebrate my 38 birthday.

Thanks to my mom for the sitting service this weekend and the gift certificates that took care of the accommodations... it has been a wonderful day.

Last February I won $1000 in gift certificates to stay in any Fairmont Hotel property worldwide. 16 months later, determined to use the gift certificates (the only reason I'd spend $399 a night on a hotel room would be because it didn't actually cost me anything) we're leaving tonight for Lake Louise.

I LOVE driving through the mountains. I LOVE the energy, the air, the life, the view. I love the way it makes me feel. 

So I said to my husband as he left the house this morning, "I want to take the David Thompson highway tonight and travel through Rocky, Nordegg and then head down towards Lake Louise. We don't have a deadline.'

To which he responds. 'Okay, I'll stop at CAA get a map.'

"Why do you need a map?" I protest. "You've got a van full of maps. It's the mountains. There is only one road that direction... when it forks you either turn left towards Banff or right towards Jasper. You won't get lost. I don't want a map."

And so there is the truth.

I don't want a map.

Ever.

I don't enjoy planning. It's boring. It stifles my desire to explore and figure things out my own way.

Ask my mom, I called her on Monday morning at 7:50am from rush hour traffic in downtown Calgary saying, 'Okay I tried to find the Conference Centre twice but I think I need some help. Here's where I am - where do I go now?'

But that's okay for me.

I tried.

I failed.

I asked for help.

I figured it out.

That's the way I like to do my life.

I realize that it is not always the most effective way. Or the most responsible way. Or even the recommended way.

But it's my way.

And when I finally get where I knew I could get, without the map, the destination experience is that much sweeter.

If he brings home one more Alberta/BC map, I'm going to tie it around his neck like a cape and call him Super Nerd.  (No offense to those of you who prefer to have a map.) And believe me... I drive him as crazy as he makes me.

I still love him. And he is the yang to my yin.

And face it, diversity in personality makes the world interesting.