That's supposed to be a muscle?

So I'm sure the question on everybody's mind this Christmas is, "How's Tamirra's training going?"

Had some really beautiful hikes n' runs here in CA. Looking forward to some more. I've been able to wear in my hiking boots and even dared to *gasp* walk through mud. Which makes them look like real hiking boots. But you know how it is, getting that first bit of mud/dirt/dog sh*t on new running shoes. . .

I've also been under the tutelage of the Pilates Nazi here in L.A. There's no messing around on Carrie's watch, no siree.

I've found myself with my feet up in stirrups on the medival wood gyrotonics machine, making circles with my legs while Carrie tells me to "think about my tummy." Translation? "Suck it in, champ."

She's also been making use of some area of my shoulders that actually has a muscle underneath it. My Gyro in Austin Susan calls this the "bra fat" muscle. Only it's not a muscle. It's a layer of flubber that stubbornly exposes itself under a bra (known only to me) or my swimsuit (known to the entire masters swim team.)

Anyway, Carrie and I had a 45-minute Bra Fato'rama yesterday. She and my right shoulder were having it out, which by the way, is no excuse for discontinuing usage of the bar I'm trying to single-handedly tug down using said bra fat.

Carrie's studio Web site looks so friendly and painless. It's written with curly-Q script like a wedding invitation inspiring thoughts of laughing good times while getting in shape. Reality? Not so much. Oh, the friendliness is there but only when thinking about my tummy.