I have come to the conclusion that no matter what detective agency I employ, what satellite led tracking device I may use, and despite all my attempts to trace it through the Internet, my BODY has obviously entered a Witness Protection Program, leaving my MIND to deal with the realities left behind.

Scientists, doctors, researchers, new agers . . . it seems like everybody is touting the Mind/Body connection these days. Telling us how to “psyche out” our flu-bug, “pull a fast one” on aches and pains and “visualize” our way to a “new you.” Now while I don’t sit around rubbing crystals on my karma or visiting psychics in search of my tomorrows, I DO believe there is a connection between my Mind and my Body. Unfortunately, every time I try that connection, I get the recording, “You have reached a body that has been disconnected or is no longer in service. The body you are trying to reach has left no forwarding instructions. If you feel you have reached this message in error, please hang up and think about that body again…..” Ahhh, my BODY before I allowed it to distort and spew forth life. Taut, trim, toned. I could eat an elephant and still fit into a peanut sized pair of pants. Legs that showed only skin. Smooth, ripple free, even colored . . .did I mention smooth? A chest that, while never worthy of a guest shot on Baywatch, did look outward, not down, as if constantly studying my feet. My MIND thinks about that BODY all the time.

I have come to the conclusion that no matter what detective agency I employ, what satellite led tracking device I may use, and despite all my attempts to trace it through the Internet, that BODY has obviously entered a Witness Protection Program, leaving my MIND to deal with the realities left behind. Legs with more lines than a topographical map of Tibet, varicose veins that mark the rivers and fjords behind my knees, skin reminiscent of an orange I peeled for breakfast. My once taut tummy? Let’s just say I feel more of a kinship with the Pillsbury Doughboy than Britney Spears, only I do NOT laugh when poked.

It’s not that I don’t work at it, very much the opposite in fact. I closely watch what I eat. Actually, I closely watch what I want to eat. You can often find me slobbering over the donut case and sniffing the jelly bean bins in the grocery store. I once had to be surgically removed from the frozen food case when I stood with my cheek pressed against a Sarah Lee cheesecake too long. I am also fastidious about checking labels, to the point where my husband jokes that fat is afraid to cross the threshold of our home. (If you ever come to visit, please do not be offended when I greet you with a caliper and ask to see your upper arm.)

I exercise at least five days a week. No, I am not some step aerobics fiend or Tae Bo groupie. I’m far too hedonistic for that kind of punishment. However, my MIND and vanity do force me to faithfully mount my treadmill in a daily battle with gravity over the placement of my caboose. And an aversion to developing wobbly underarms insures I pick up my weights each afternoon. You would think lifting a 4-year-old child daily would be enough, but no such luck. And yes, I do sit-ups. In some delusional effort to regain a taut tummy, I crunch more often than the actors in a Pringles commercial. Still my “six pack” more closely resembles a package of Charmin, and the only thing “ripped” is my ancient pair of jogging shorts.

Yet my MIND is not weeping. My MIND sees what that former BODY left behind. For a while Britney Spears may have legions of adoring, screaming fans, I have three gorgeous, happy, blond-haired, blue-eyed little girls who call me beautiful . . . Oh yeah, they also call me Mommy, and how could anyBODY want more than that?