My friends and I have plans to meet over the Christmas break. Some of us haven't seen each other in months. I was just thinking that when we meet up, I might have to point out that I am really me, as I may well weigh over 400 pounds at that point. Josephine gave me a bag of Hershey's kisses she picked up actually in Hershey, PA over Thanksgiving, and I placed them in a nice, white basket on my desk. "Here," the basket is meant to say. "Have chocolates, friends." The basket has inched, since it's initial placement, ever closer to my keyboard, so that I, mid-typing, can grab, oh seven or eight of the little fuckers, unwrap and eat them, and then remember that this does not comprise "GETTING IN SHAPE," the most talked-about least-realized event of my recent weeks. Don't tell me that the holidays are no time for this. The holidays are, in fact, an excellent time to practice self-restraint, punishing oneself mercilessly with each Santa cookie, each block of cheese beautifully matched with crackers, wine, and the unending plea to oneself to just let loose, or at least go on a daily walk.