I have taken to sitting in the smallest of my two bedroom closets. I pull my vanity chair in and sit back as the chain hanging from the single light bulb rests unobtrusively upon my head. I turn on the light, close the door of my small office and reflect, taking up residency between an overcrowded neighborhood of t-shirts and a parade of various hanging clothes. As I start fingering through my clothes absent mindedly, a friend, pregnant in her eighth month, calls to reminisce about our early twenties and to revel over the fact that she is a wife and soon to be mother. We laugh hysterically as she tells me of an attempt of hers to help her husband to a “happy ending” but, being extremely pregnant, she started to cough and passed gas out loud. Tears followed and were topped off by a trickle of pee. Long gone are our days of spontaneous trips to Mexico, or dropping acid at noon on a Tuesday. We marvel at how our hearts race upon finding a great deal on huge sets of Tupperware when we used to get excited over well constructed beer bongs. We run through a montage of memories accompanied by short renditions of rock music. In my final year of my twenties I find my social circle has separated into different groups. There are the singles…hitting up happy hour, stumbling home after two, stained with Whataburger picante sauce and looking for the after party. They name their drinking days, like, Wednesday Hump Day Extravaganza or Drunk Bitch Monday. There are the marrieds; terribly in love, and perhaps as a group requirement, they always make-out in front of everyone. Then there are the new mothers. Happy…exhausted. But I focus on my own group…I started going to Weight Watcher meetings again mid January but decided not to weigh myself just yet so as not to induce a heart attack from the results of my holiday indulging. I hang up the phone feeling fabulous. The old fire of inspiration refuels my soul. I am half way through my weight loss goal. Time to bust out the Rocky soundtrack.