I hate her/me right now. I hate reality. I would prefer to return to fantasy.

I need some fantasy because I can’t be divorced. I can’t be the person who is sending out little apology notes so soon after the wedding thank-yous. I can’t be the person who is stopped on the street by the second cousin of the soon-to-be ex-husband, who says, “We’re just so surprised, Holly. It doesn’t seem like you. You were the last person we ever thought would do this.”

And, of course, I just stand there with my stupid tight little smile, trying not to cry, trying not to shout, Do you really think you’re helping things? Do you think I like being me right now?

Finally my survival instinct kicks in, and I can breathe again. I exhale and inhale while I’m trying to get a grip.

Why do I call him? Do I like pain? Do I need pain? Is there any reason to continue torturing myself like this?

I might as well take a whip and beat myself. I’d probably get as much enjoyment. There’s an idea. Holly Bishop’s Guide to Self-Flagellation.

Suddenly I have to know how bad it is. Not just the relationship with Jean-Marc, but everything, all of it. My body. My life.

I strip off my robe, stand stark naked in front of the mirror, and look. And look. And what I see isn’t exactly pretty. There’s a lot more of hips and thighs than I remember, and I’ve grown a stomach where there never was one. Happily the breasts are bigger, but so is the roll on my ribs where my bra strap would hit.

The knees still look good. The shins and calves are reasonably shapely. Shoulders are fine. Upper arms rather heavy, but the forearms are presentable. I need some work, but the body is salvageable.

(There’s no point in being too hard on me. It’s going to take time to get in shape—can’t hate myself forever.)

Resolution: Stop eating so much crap.

Resolution #2: Start getting more exercise.

In fact, why not start getting more exercise right now?

Push-ups. Right here. Right now. I drop to the floor. Let’s do ten.

I manage two.

That’s okay. Let’s finish them off girl-style. By seven I think my arms are going to fall off. I roll over onto my back, start my crunches. I heard somewhere that basketball great Karl Malone does a thousand crunches every day—surely I can do fifty.

Or forty.

By twelve my abs are burning.