I turn 40 this year. Hurrah. Silence. Yeah. This is a hard thing for me to admit. “My name is Lucia Frangione and I am a youth-a-holic.”

I knew I hit rock bottom when vanity drove me to complete a legal document with the birth date of 1975. Why not? I look 33…okay…a tired 33…so, to avoid being jailed for fraud, I decide to do yoga. Not out of a quest for health but out of sheer panic.

Breathe Already

I begin with a bit of hatha. Pretty “stretchy.” Feels good but not enough action for me: a bit like heavy petting. So I keep the tease to once a week and head to the gym to pound on the treadmill and pump weights. Hmm. Improved cardio and muscles but my Mummy Tummy still pouches out proudly. So, I call up my cousin Meg and ask her to gently introduce me to pilates and those frightening looking torture machines: leather straps and spring loaded beds: who knew our family would ever be into this? But Meg took me through the focused exercises compassionately and firmly in her beautiful intimate wellness centre. Even though there is a frightening exercise called “the hundreds” I feel I am up to it and am starting to see definition in my abs. I haven’t seen definition in my abs since I had to squish myself out of my mother’s womb.

It’s Getting Hot In Here!

Now, three months later and eight per cent less body fat, I bravely buy my first two piece Lululemon work-out-fit (which I look really good in when I hold my breath) and I decide to try the exotic sounding hot yoga. I enter a hot room with a bunch of scantily clad beautifully fit men and women and we sweat profusely together in compromising body positions. I ask myself mid eagle, surveying all the slippery limbs around me: “Am I allowed to do this and still be married and Catholic?” I make the sign of the cross under the lobby’s Buddha and buy an unlimited monthly package.

When did I become a person who works out six times a week? Will I be able to maintain this extreme change of lifestyle? I am loving my new body as it slowly emerges, like a Michelangelo sculpture being chiseled out from a block of lard. I thought age had claimed my bum forever, leaving a double coconut pancake in its place. But no, it wasn’t age! It was laziness! Now my round little bottom from youth is back: smooth and happy. I just want to spank myself with glee. Okay, let’s be honest, I do spank myself with glee.

Results Keep You Going

Three months later, I am still on my program. This is unheard of. Unlike the many crash diets and “boot camp” exercise programs I have been on during my lifetime, something has changed. I’m doing a smattering of things in moderation and I am not dieting. Hm. This doesn’t feel like a quick fix weight loss plan in order to fit into my black dress. No. This is a lifelong commitment to give the middle finger to middle age.

This week I hit the cusp of “ideal weight.” I am about five pounds away. I see those abs poking out underneath that last layer of pudge and I start to feel a great panic inside of me. “I can’t lose that chub! I’ve always had that chub! That chub is my friend!”

What?! How many times have I bemoaned my reflection in the mirror? How many times has my doctor warned me to take it off for my health?

Geesh. If I lose the weight, I’ll lose my number one excuse for not living up to my full potential. My pudge has been my protection from the thought that I could achieve everything I want to achieve. Isn’t that amazing? And how ridiculous? Being big gives me an excuse to live small. I didn’t pursue film as an actor because “I’m not skinny enough.” Oh, couldn’t be because I’m terrified to audition! No. Much safer to rail against the Western Ideal of beauty, call Keira Knightley “Skeletor” and shout out during her love scenes, “Please, please, get me a sandwich!” My extra weight has kept me from pursuing the men I really wanted so I could settle and be grateful for men like my father instead. My flab has protected me from the envy of other women. Hm. Now how insulting is that to think about my sisters? And honestly, how oddly arrogant of me.

In terror, I tell you, I am going to take off those last five pounds. I just sent off a short film script to a director with a great role starring me. I am going to go to The Arts Club glamorous fundraiser ball: Glitter, in my black slinky dress. And you know what other men’s wives will do? They will swish by me in their gorgeous gowns looking fabulous and ask me where I got my shoes.

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Pilates for Beginners, with Maggie Rhoades