It's true. I'm tired of this half-hearted attempt to "Reach the Beacon." I haven't been serious about it. I do the group runs, but I'm still eating junk and drinking more than my share. The contradictions in my training are funny, to be sure, but wasn't I doing this for something other than entertainment value?

I recently checked in with my skinny jeans pile - you remember those pants I haven't worn in over a year, those pants that stare at me in such a patronizing way whenever I open my closet.

See the difference between all my jeans (left) and the three pairs still in regular rotation (right):

Really, I think the skinny pants are sad - never being unfolded, never seeing the light of day, never being worn but instead being cursed at and thrown around the room.

The good news is - after over eight weeks of training, I can now fit into...Oh, wait, NONE OF THEM!

How could that be? It doesn't make sense. Or maybe, all along, the beer has been quietly sabotaging my efforts.

Geary's isn't on the Beer100 calorie list, but I think we all get the idea. Beer = evil.

Course, it's not just the beer. It's the chicken finger, fries, nachos, etc. that beer just goes so well with.

So I'm committing to steer clear of beer (oooh, rhyming) until the Beach to Beacon on August 4th.

Geez - that's eight weeks smack dab in the middle of summer (prime beer garden season).

30 days sounds like a more reasonable goal.

Oh - that would include the Fourth of July.

How about: I commit to not drink beer until I deem it appropriate to drink beer again.

Another foolproof plan, Shannon.

Thanks Shannon, I try.

Downward spirals are usually pretty easy to spot - they imply a quick and definite plummet, a fall from high. But sometimes plummets are in slow motion and you can easily dismiss the signs. Like when, at 28, you find yourself panting at the top of two flights of stairs (but you were carrying stuff! Those keys are heavy!). Soon, afternoon napping becomes the norm and the 10-minute walk to work is seen as an immense accomplishment.

But I can't ignore the intense feelings of loss, each time a pair of pants passes from the world of the wearable into the dark, hidden corner of my closet where the skinny pants dwell.

The bountiful collection of pants I could wear last year, left, compared to the three pairs of jeans I can still rotate through the week, right.