This past Sunday afternoon I was delighted to have a few free hours to go on a motorcycle ride. I felt like a kid going to Disney as I shrugged into my jacket and strapped on my helmet. And the first couple of miles zooming down the Natchez Trace Parkway were glorious. I rode past deer and wild turkey and watched a red-tailed hawk slice through the blue horizon in front of me. I could feel my soul beginning to settle within me.
There was just one small problem. My jeans were too tight. So there I was, trying to relax on a much-needed joyride through the hills of Tennessee, yet distracted by the distinct pinch of waistband biting into muffin-top. Now I could’ve berated myself with my usual pudgy lecture, “Doggone It, Lisa – you’ve done it again! Why’d you have to eat chips and guacamole last night? Do you know how hard it’s going to be to lose these ten pounds again?” Or I could’ve just ridden on in misery, grimly assuming that pinch was the penance I deserved for being a Tex-Mex fan. Instead I chose a third option. I pulled over into a rest area, put my bike in neutral, unbuttoned my jeans and resumed riding with a liberated grin!