Che's eating a Rice Krispy treat laying in her bed as I get oriented to being awakened in the middle of the night because she's having nightmares.
Taking a handful of pills washed down with a quick swig of Orange Juice, I pour myself coffee and return to our 5 year old daughter's room.
Grabbing "Baby" and "Snuggles" the puppy, Che drags her blanket to the sofa where she lays her head in my lap. She sleepily surfs YouTube videos while I sip coffee and and rub her back.
I consciously appreciate these moments together until the familiar queazy rebellion commences inside of me, interrupting the bliss.
Che lays without me in the glow of candles we light and the television.
In the harsh glow of bathroom lights, I absentmindedly watch the prong of my belt slide into the wrong hole.
It doesn't go in the last one!
It goes into the next to last one easily distinguishable by the faintest use marks on the leather whereas the rest are blackened from usage.
Wait!
I haven't lost more weight??!!
The prong easily slides inside the last hole.
"Damn," I mutter, flipping off the light, resuming my seat with Che's head in my lap.
Later when Che's at Pre-K and Sarah's busy with the billion things my wife does every day, I join the "Live Strong" program at the YMCA.
"Live Strong" was created by Lance Armstrong to "unite, inspire and empower people affected with cancer."
There are 7 of us in the class and everyone's in remission or has no evidence of cancer, except me.
Staring at us in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors of the "cardio room", we resemble stereotypes on an old television sitcom, especially given we're all squatting on large colorful Yoga balls.
So far only one of us has fallen off a ball but was caught by our trainer before hitting the ground. She's being spotted while the rest of us hold on to our balls for dear life!
I want to laugh but am afraid I'll be the next to fall and there's no one to catch me before I hit the floor.
Ununited we stand behind our balls, seeing how uninspired we are in the mirrors while our trainer cheerfully sings the last words of empowerment, sadly drowned in the shuffling of survivors feet leaving the room.
Taking a moment I stare at myself in the giant mirrors.
"Damn," I mutter seeing the skinny, long grey hair and bearded, stoned old man looking ridiculous dressed in work out clothes.
I am so thin.
Home again telling Sarah about the class, I slide back into my jeans and pull the belt to the last hole and easily sliding the prong into it.
Sarah smiles but she may as well said "Damn" because that what her eyes screamed.
"Let's go out for lunch," she grins, taking me to a small family neighborhood Asian place we like.
Our waiter calls Sarah "Honey" in the drippiest Southern accent ever and we giggle every time he speaks.
We laugh a lot, eat as much as possible and find joy in our days which is how we live, in spite of any evidence to the contrary.
