They tried to make me go to rehab

The slap upside the head from cancer has been pretty monumental for my bod and my brain, but I try my very pinkie-swear hardest to keep things in perspective and count my shoe collection in gratitude. I could be swiped clean from this earth by a bus or vat of piranhas, without the luxury of a year to think about it, so there, cancer, you're not the worst this world has in store.

Now that I'm mostly able to sleep at night, drink my green blood, not yell at my kids or shout at people driving Volvos (that last one is really hard, tho), I'm moving on to the pasture that is my wretched goddess pod. From the poor imitation of a pixie on my head to the 20 lbs I've lost since bulking up during chemo, the bat-wing underarm and high-water mark river rock breasts I now sport, it's been a glamourous party. Saying nothing of the forced menopause in the summer and now the continued messing with my hormones with Tamoxifen. So it's time to ditch the old Carissa and create the shell I need to move around and kick some serious street-fighting arse.

I went for my first hour-long speed walk the other day with the girl cousins and was impressed I could hoof it in fairly decent time, so endurance is not a problem. Then yesterday I submerged myself with a gaggle of women in their 70s and 80s and got my waterfit on. At first I was all, "suck on it, bitches, I can exercise circles around you!" while they all tut-tutted about my short hair and lack of osteoporosis. About mid-way through the hour we got out the floaty dumbbells and I floundered around in the water like a freshly-caught marlin. Not a pretty sight.

By the end of the hour, my non-existent abs and weakling arms were so tuckered I had to ask one of the oldies to wash my hair in the shower. So I was cocky, yes. And immediately afterward I signed up for a rehab class to get some Cameron Diaz arms going tout de suite. But if they make me lift more than five lbs I'll cry.

I haven't figured out what I want to do on a regular basis to keep my bod from slipping into oblivion, but with my rebounder, my jogging cousins and the swimming pool of antiquity on my side, I'm hoping to get into some routine by the end of the month. And then there's Varla, my purple cruiser, gifted to me by my man for my last birthday. She made me feel less like a 38-year old chemo patient than a young(ish) bald chick on a bike, so I'll dust her off soon and take her for a spin.