Gettin' my swagger on during an attempt to lose weight

I generally gain about 15 pounds during the crunch period of a writing project.

I sit too long, move too little and nibble to stay alert when I hit a creative block. After the manuscript is turned it, I celebrate by taking a hard look at what my literary sacrifice has wrought upon my middle-aged body — an increased mid-tummy tire, enlarged saddle bags and perhaps a new chin to boot.

As always, I begin a renewed commitment to getting to bed by 10 p.m., padlocking the fridge and I commit to a new exercise regimen.

In truth, my numerous attempts to sustain an exercise program have failed miserably while hammering out my "Free Men and Dreamers" books, but this time would be different, I vowed.

I took stock of my saggy situation the day the first warm breeze blew through. You know the drill. You attempt to pull on that cute pair of capris from last year and realize you might need a block and tackle to get them past that adorable hip bulge. Fortunately, my daughter Amanda wanted to start an exercise regimen, too, so we decided to hit the park trail with her two babies in tow, to begin a walking routine.

It's a perfect plan. We begin as soon as the babies are up and fed, pushing them around the track in strollers. We pause at the playground so Brady can slide and swing, and we get some fresh air and mother/daughter chat time.

We do OK. Sure, some octogenarian veteran walkers lap us, and we do note that while we walk the track, many jog past us three times. Still, we pull our elastic-waisted sweat pants up, align the neck of our baggy T-shirts pulled from the bottom drawer where our exercise/housecleaning/gardening togs are stored, we square our shoulders and push on, claiming our spot on the trail.

But we've also begun to note the wry smiles the veteran exercisers give us as they press past our slovenly little parade. "Newbies," they seem to say as their spandex-ed legs race past our moseying fleece. I give my husband's baseball cap a firm tug, wondering where I can pick up one of those cute, pink visor-things with the "Joggin' Mama" logo.

"How is it that they don't even break a sweat?" I ask myself. Then I realize that they do, only when you're dressed in cute exercise clothes, sweat turns to sheen, and that ruddy "I-think-I'm-about-to-have-a-heart-attack" flush appears to be merely a healthy glow.

"We've got to get ourselves some cute exercise clothes," I tell Amanda. "Some black pants with a racing stripe down the leg. They're very slimming."