In search of slinky

Ever eat a goji berry? Berry expensive. Tastes like a cross between a raisin and beef jerky. They're a little shriveled but then, so am I, so what the heck?

The marvelous, magical goji is part of my new regime to shed a flabby coat that has somehow attached itself to me and follows me everywhere. Brace yourselves. I am on my way to thin, energized, irresistible and thoroughly slinky. Get it? Sliiiiiinky.

Maybe you've got the same issues. I think the bod and I are suffering from post-traumatic eggnog disorder. We're a bona fide cellulite celebration of lard, an orgy of chocolate kisses, mashed potatoes, peppermint bark aged festively with an occasional cranberry daiquiri. Or two.

What's the saying? If you are what you eat, then . . . I'm fast, cheap and easy.

Don't ask me what my mother fed me when I was little cuz it's none of your darn business. While I was never a bony little princess, I wasn't a tanker either.

So here I am, riding the low tide of hormonal blight in the merry menopausal years, finding that my formerly substantial, yet shapely, figure resembles a pitiful blend of Kraft cheese and axle grease.

It's a new year, and I'm beginning the schlep to slim. My unwanted flab and I headed down to Whole Foods and learned how to go broke getting thin. I guess you get to spend a whole lotta money finding that bony derriere within.

Take my new buddy, goji, for example. He doesn't speak Japanese or do squat. The very precious berry has another name: the red diamond. So . . . should I eat 'em or wear them as earrings? Maybe I'll just leave them to my children along with Granny's china and the inability to hit a softball.

I'm liking this berry thing, so I scoped out the magical acai berry that comes with a loan application and automatic withdrawals from your checking account. Maybe I'll grow those instead of tomatoes to make a run at early retirement. If you see Kirby's Acai Berry stand on the corner of Erbes and T.O Boulevard, I want you to know I accept cash, credit cards, Kate Spade purses or an island in the Bahamas.

After a whole lotta fun at Whole Foods, I found my flabby way to Lassen's and got lost in the world of soy: tofu, curd, crud, cakes, tempeh and a billion gelatinous creations of the multitasking bean. You can eat it, drink it, smoke it, soak in it or read by the light of the oh-so-mysterious soy candle, which not only sheds light but appears on the menu for dessert. How convenient.

Turns out the soybean has been cultivated by the Chinese for 5,000 years, not just as a food staple, but also as a drug. It's the phytoestrogens within the soybean that are supposed to relieve symptoms of menopause yet can also be carcinogenic. Lovely. So, eating soy makes you and your hot flashes disappear. Another convenience.

On to Zumba class. The chacha meets fitness. Chitness? I didn't meet Mr. Zumba, the inventor of this clever workout at my class where Charo is worshipped like St. Francis in Assisi. After dancing to the Miami Sound Machine for 60 minutes, I'm thankful—I think we're all thankful— there wasn't a camera within 300 yards of this place. A margarita would go well with this workout.

You know, it doesn't matter. I'm getting lean and mean. I've got to get rid of this stuff that jiggles more than those blasted bells that rang incessantly in December.

In this new year, I join millions of equally overserved colleagues who are searching for slinky. May we find bliss in raw vegetables, salvation in rubbery chicken breasts, glory in goji and everlasting meaning in Zumba. Salud!

You can reach Elizabeth Kirby at kirby@theacorn.com.