Ever since Aruba, Red Beard and I have been lugging around a few extra pounds, due in part to an overindulgence in piña coladas. Now that both Bozo’s wedding and our birthdays are rolling around, we’ve been determined to get back down to our fighting weights. Let me tell ya, once winter hits and ’tis the season of couch setting and nacho guzzling – if I let myself stay pudgy through the fall – it’s a downhill slide to Big Ass Chubbyville.

Today I spent a few moments deciding where I would go while Red Beard takes his bachelor party trip, keeping in mind my desire to get in shape. (A fat farm perhaps?) I had decided that I didn’t want to sit at home while he was off drinking and being a bachelor and looking at other women’s mostly naked bodies. Let me clarify – when I say other women’s bodies, I’m talking writhing bodies that are tanned and toned and have big, spherical, plastic boobies attached, because these women are paid to keep their writhing bodies looking like sex toys.

So yes, I decided that staying at home while Red Beard has strange women dangling their cooches right in his face would be way too depressing. I really don’t understand how strip clubs aren’t considered to be cheating. I just don’t. I don’t get it, and I hate them. Okay, stepping off my soap box now. I really frickin’ hope that he enjoys having one of these strange women wiggling around centimeters from his crotch, because I just think that’s not nice at all. NOT NICE. I have already told him that if he cheats on me, oops I mean gets a lap dance, then he shouldn’t tell me. Because I will cry and be very, very upset. Okay, seriously. I will shut up now.

So anyway, in the midst of deciding where I would go, I figured it would be a good idea to spend that weekend being inward focused and not thinking or talking about where Red Beard is and what he’s doing while he’s doing THAT. And so I am taking myself on a little spa vacation in the middle of nowhere. I am promised a luxury suite with a king-sized bed, delicious yet very low calorie meals, up to six exercise classes a day (if I decide to go the distraction-by-torture route as opposed to a routine that’s a little more Zen) and a couple spa treatments a day. I am told that I will leave the spa feeling, “relaxed, physically rejuvenated and spiritually renewed.”

I am also guessing that I will be glowing and happy after having someone else count calories and cook for me all weekend. And it won’t hurt to have someone else dragging me along behind them for a little calorie burning, what with the constant workouts. Plus, I am scheduled for two different massages, one of which they assured me is “very oily.” So while Red Beard is looking at some other lady’s tits, I’ll be getting a greasy rub down. I figure it’ll be hard to be upset when I’m relaxed.