Due to an unexpected death in my family {Great Uncle Henry was white water rafting at the beginning of July; two weeks later: dead}, I am visiting Mesa, Arizona, where I was born and raised.  It’s good to be back where everybody knows my name (Norm!).  Comfortable.  Familiar.  I love this desert place, more than my teenage self ever imagined possible.  {Back then, I wanted nothing more than to move far away and never come back to this land of heat and sagebrush.  Silly me.}

But being home is not all lollipops and daisies.  The bad thing about coming home after moving away is that I usually run in to people I haven’t seen in a while {whether by chance or by design}, and it’s very nerve-wracking to me.  One of my lifelong fears is that I’ll see an old acquaintance and he or she will immediately think, “Wow, she’s really let herself go.”

It is for this very reason that I have developed an unhealthy phobia of going out in public.  I mean, what am I?  I’m a 22 year-old college NONgraduate with no job, driving my mom’s old Ford Windstar (which is only because I flew down from Canada and am not old enough to rent a car, but old acquaintances don’t necessarily know that—for all they know, the minivan I drove on our group dates to the mountains our Senior year of high school is the very same vehicle I drive today).  And okay, image isn’t everything; it’s just that the Windstar is the cherry on top of the bran muffin that is my unfulfilled life.

“But Camille—you’re married! How can you say your life is unfulfilled?  Of course your life has meaning!”

I’ve never understood that logic.  Maybe for some girls being married is an identity, but not me—never me.  I never wanted to be the kind of woman whose entire sense of worth was wrapped up in a man’s presence (or lack thereof).  So yes, I love Poor Kyle and the life we have together, but it doesn’t necessarily mean I have DONE something with myself…you know?  I got married, and I’m happy I did, but it doesn’t change who I am.  Being married is not an accomplishment to me {in the sense that writing a best-selling novel would be}, because it was never my major goal in life.  (I hope Poor Kyle understands what I’m saying and doesn’t feel bad…I love you, dear.)

Therefore, I have come to the conclusion…that I am washed up.  Worn out.  Old news.  Past my prime.  Expired.  If I was a gallon of skim milk (who am I kidding?  I’m whole milk if anything), I’d be right sour.

I’m a dadgum has-been.

I haven’t graduated from college.  I’m unemployed.  I’m the image of failed domesticity, and to top it off, I have really flabby arms.

Tragic.

That’s the root of my problem, I think—my flabby upper arms.  It’s nothing new, of course; they’ve always been flabby, but it’s not really an issue in Canada.  I simply wear a lot of sweaters {a solution which is both functional and appropriate}.  But now, in Arizona in July, sweaters are neither functional nor appropriate.  On the contrary: a sweater in Arizona in July is like a BMW in an Amish town—totally worthless.

So while living in Canada, I can hide from the problem, or ignore it altogether; but here, I’m wearing short-sleeved T-shirts and feeling ridiculously insecure about my granny arms, all the while bumping into people at the grocery store who knew me in the glory days.  It’s pretty much awful.

But you know what I’ve decided?  Enough is enough.  It has to stop.  Over the past seven months, I have proven to myself that, in fact, I do have stamina.  I can work hard.  I can get As in all my classes.  I can lose 20 pounds.  I can go months without washing my hair.  I can, I can, I can.

I can either leave my arms alone and get over my insecurities (knowing that even if my arms were toned like Jillian’s, I’d just find something else to fret about), or I can buff up my arms and get over it.  Either way, I have to get over it.

I might as well try to build some muscle mass along the way.

After all, the miserable month of August is fast approaching, and it’s only getting hotter from here.  I’ve decided to fight the frump starting on August 1st.  I mean, August is such a worthless month, I might as well take on a quest and try to make the best of it.  So, in exactly four days, I’m going to begin a strict push-up routine.  I’ll stick to it diligently, providing (of course) regular photographic updates, and hopefully make some progress by the end of the month.

Who knows?  Maybe someday I’ll be able to bench press more than the super ultra-light bar at the gym that I haven’t visited in years.

Bring it, August.  I’ll punch your face.

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