Stuck in Waterloo Station with an hour to kill, I ducked into a bookstore to find something to pass the time. My eyes, and then my hands, fell on a copy of Skinny Bitch, some sort of diet book in which the authors are rude to you, and then magically, all the tenets of weight loss will suddenly be easier to stick to. Um, okay.

They may be bitches, but they are skinny bitches. And you'll be one too-after you get with the program and start eating right.

My first thought was, that if anything excuses being a bitch, skinny is not it. Funny, yes. But not skinny. Skinny just gives you the right to turn heads and wear the clothes the rest of us only dream of wearing. But bitchiness requires talent, not a low calorie intake.

Anyway, flipping through the book, I learned that to be skinny and (healthy, natch), you must abstain from sugar, meat and dairy products. Abstain from dairy products? Pfft! You're not skinny bitches, you're crazy bitches! I tossed the book back onto the shelf, like it was on fire.

"Uch."

"Zat bad?"

A French woman, most probably in her 40's, was standing behind me. She was, incidentally, skinny, and dressed head to toe in rich creams and taupes. She looked like a magazine cover.

"Yes," I said. "It's just... if cheese is wrong, I don't want to be right."

She laughed, and made a flicking gesture, as if mentally sweeping those skinny bitches right out of existence.

"Zey don't tell you how boring it is being skeeny."

I laughed, wondering if she knew from experience just how boring it is being skinny. We made a bit of small talk, then the woman checked her watch, and said she had to be off. But not before stopping by the checkout counter... to buy a chocolate bar.

Apparently, not.

I started a post about the varied and interesting characters I see on the Katy Trail in the mornings - the Giantess, the heavy-set man who sweats Rorschach tests into his gray t-shirt, and the Adonis of the Katy Trail (or Donny, as we've come to call him), but then I got distracted. Lost my train of thought completely. And just like that, the title of this post went from "Trail Mix" to "Boob Jog."

This has to be what men feel like - having their senses take leave over a pair of boobs.

And today? My boobs look amazing. Simply amazing. I admired the ladies in the mirror this morning before I left to run errands. Hello, darlings. And then, as I was walking into CVS just now, I caught my reflection in the automatic doors.

"Holy shit!"

I said this out loud, not caring in the slightest if anyone within earshot took offense to my language or my unabashed vanity. After all, there they were, sitting atop my rib cage, peeking over the top of my tank looking perky and, with each step, bouncing just so. A sight to behold. Even the pharmacy patrons had to be enjoying the view. I mean, they're like Halle Berry boobs. Only, pre-pregnancy and with not-quite-as-ravishing skin. But you get the idea.

Jamie and I have been diligently (and daily) working our way up and down The Katy (I'm prepping myself for Cinque Terre) and after all this work (seven miles! every day!) I'd expected to see a little change in my thighs. And maybe my butt. You know, the parts that the slimming of makes you dig into your bottom drawer for those jeans you can only hope to wear after a good bout of food poisoning. But I completely forgot about the effects those long miles could have on the rest of my 2,000 parts. Like, my waist. And my ta-tas.

Phenomenal I tell you. If only I had somewhere to show these off.

"Right now," I said, bending at the waist, arms pinned just after the shoulders by the elastic band of my sports bra. "Right now is when a live-in boyfriend would come in very handy.

I hung that way for a full minute before I could muster up the strength to rip the bra off and toss it to the floor. My shoulder muscles twitched and I think I actually heard my triceps scream, "Mother of god, why must you do this to us?"

It's day three of my five day re-introduction to power yoga and there is not a single muscle in my body that isn't feeling it. Strangely enough, the hour I'm twisting and bending and sweating (the room is kept at a balmy 87 degrees, I think) is the very best part of my day. The worst? Waking up and realizing I can't exactly lift my arms off the mattress. But I assume that's a temporary ailment.

This morning, after a couple weeks of watching what I eat, hitting the jogging trails and now, adding power yoga to my day, I decided to brave the bathroom scale. I wiggled out of my nightie, tapped the scale to on and climbed up.

"I've actually gained weight!" I whined to Ari.

"Oh, no!"

"Yes. And I'm suing god. For intentional infliction of emotional distress."

"Class action? I have a few complaints of my own."

"Why not? It'll be something to do."

While I'm fond of Scott Number Two's suggestion that the added poundage is new muscle, I raised my eye brows in challenge.

"In three days?"

"You never know."

Mmm hmm. It's a yoga miracle, Charlie Brown.