Cave Woman (Lynn Kerstan)

In the human body, there are approximately 639 skeletal muscles. At the moment, save only those muscles north of the nape and jawline, all of mine are hurting.

I have a love-hate relationship with spring. And this phase is firmly in the "hate" sector. It’s the time when, like a hibernating bear, I must come forth from my winter cave–winter being a relative term here in Southern California–and face the ugly truth.

The cave, I should explain, is what I live in during the frigid (below 63 degrees) weather. That means a wardrobe of soft, elastic-waisted fleece or velour. Cuddly chenille sweaters. Everything oversized, to allow for layering over velvety turtlenecks. Of my flesh, only hands and head are ever visible from November through April.

Then comes the day when I have to dig out the wanton spring and summer clothes, with their skimpy fabrics and form-revealing lines. The day when I realize, as I do every year, that they don’t fit.

Bears fatten up in autumn and emerge from their caves sleek and hungry. But caves of fleece, I’m sorry to say, hide a multitude of sins. Not bad sins. Well, not many. There was the speaking engagement at a November conference in Calgary, where we were stuffed like Thanksgiving turkeys. The Search for San Diego’s Best Onion Rings at the Novelists, Inc. Conference in March. A few lunches and dinners with friends.

But mostly, I adhere to a version of the South Beach Diet, with lots of protein, vegetables, and practically no processed food or sweets. My fidelity is what keeps me from gaining five pounds a month, which is what my greedy genes keep trying to do. The New York Times recently reported the results of a long, complex medical study. Apparently the tendency to gain and maintain weight (even when dieting) is primarily a genetic phenomenon.

No kidding, Sherlock. I could have told you that in a five-minute phone call. My parents were fairly normal, if taller than most folks of their time. My sister is a brown-eyed sylph. I’m un-tall, blue-eyed, pudgy from birth, and probably a throwback to a grandmother who died before I was born. Sophie Kerstan was a singer and a writer, like me, and looking at her pictures, I can see myself.

My too, too solid flesh is clearly programmed to settle at a weight about 30 pounds higher than I have spent a lifetime striving to achieve. And I did achieve it, for a time. Being positively slender required a diet of 600 calories a day for a year to lose excess weight and 800 calories to maintain the goal weight. But after a few years, I couldn’t sustain the diet. And with the 801st calorie, the weight started piling back on.

Then, with age, came the inevitable triumph of gravity over flesh. My upper arms were the first to surrender. Let’s just say that if I fell from the top of a tall tree and spread my arms in the manner of a flying squirrel, I could count on a soft landing. And this is the season of short sleeves, which are forever banned from my wardrobe. There’s not exactly a law against it, but in most states, I no longer have the right to bare arms.

The other sad truth is that in winter, except for walking 10-15 miles a week, I exercise not at all. Which is why I am a solid mass of pain tonight. Yesterday evening, I went back to my high-intensity water aerobics class for the first time since October. I’ve tried since then, but unless six people show up, the class is cancelled. Apparently I’m not the only hibernating bear in Coronado. Last night, though, eleven people flailed away in the water, so I have hope for tomorrow night and the weeks and months to come.

In fact, as an act of faith, I went looking for a new cover-up to wear over my bathing suit and, after the post-class shower, over my undies. That’s so I can walk to and from the Aquatics Center, adding to my exercise routine without looking, as I currently do in my ratty fleece robe, like the Bag Lady of Coronado.

And I found just the thing. Well, sort of. High-necked, long sleeved, hem brushing my toesies, it’s a cotton fantasy in an eccentric black-and-white pattern. And on sale. There were two in my size, so I bought them both. Meaning that for the next couple of years, I’ll be hoofing to the pool looking like a mutant zebra.

Oh, well. I’m healthy and generally happy. And I’ve always longed to be eccentric. Now’s my chance!

Blog Update: If you came looking for Patricia Potter’s Friday post, try again tomorrow. Saturdays work better for her schedule, so she and I have switched days.

Cat Update: Lymond is currently resisting all efforts to add fiber to his diet. Rejected the vet-recommended pumpkin. Didn’t eat a bite of tonight’s favorite-canned-food supper because I stirred in the barest whisper of bran. But he’s been walking a little better the last couple of days and is, as ever, very sweet.