Welcome to "The Biggest Fathlete," Week Two!

Welcome to the second installment of "The Biggest Fathlete," starring your favorite aspiring hardbody, me. It's been a week since I announced my plan to be the hottest bridesmaid ever.

I have done this by:

— hiring Victor, the fabulous, Ahnold-quoting trainer who hosts the weekly Booty Camps I go to, as my once a week trainer. So far, this hurts. But in a good way.

— giving Kiki, the bride at the upcoming wedding, the password to my Livestrong.com account so that she can see what I am eating, in the spirit of accountability.

— worked out all but once this week.

— Kept crazy watch on my calories, and forgoing any sort of tempura roll, egg roll, fried rice or the foods that give my life meaning.

So, this is what I look like this week. I think it's not bad. What do you think? Besides the Buckwheat hair, of course.

The Fathlete Training Torture Begins!

This is not Victor, my new trainer. But he, like Maximus here, is about entertaining you with the pain. And the endless kickbox drills and the horrible flutter kicks. He is here to make me hot, and I just have to muddle through and suffer. And be hot. After I can feel my feet again.

Welcome to "The Biggest Fathlete"!

OK, here's the situation. My parents went away on a week's vacation and...they left the keys to the brand new Porche.

Sorry. Fresh Prince interlude. The real deal is that I declared in my last post that I have a bridesmaid dress to look hot in, and I've been sleeping on this here weight plateau for too long.

So we're stepping it up, with more workouts, less food and some accountability. And that's where you, gentle Fathlete reader, come in. I was inspired by my friend, Bride-To-Be-Kiki, and her astonishing weight loss, as well as the formerly rotund folks on "The Biggest Loser." Of course, those people were way obese and have been working out like it's their full-time job with a million dollars on the line.

All I have is my dignity and my vanity, and my health. So every week, I'm gonna take a picture of myself in this tank, that I bought when a sleeker and younger me finished the Baltimore Marathon in 2005, and some sort of running short/skort/skirt. I won't be telling you my weight, because I don't want to, and because nobody's giving me a million dollars to do so.

We're gonna do this together. Because what would we do, babies, without us? Sha-la-la-la!

A Fathlete Doesn't Want To Be The Fat Bridesmaid.

My close and dear almost-sister Kiki is getting married, which is why she flew me to Pennsylvania last weekend to do bridesmaid stuff, like meet her cake guy (fab!) see her wedding dress (I cried!) and get fitted for my beautiful bridesmaid dress, which is a lot prettier with me not in it.

Crappity.

I am trying to nudge myself off this plateau I'm on, but nevertheless felt pretty good about my weight going into the fitting at David's Bridal (and Lord, ain't that place a racket!), up until I actually put the dress on. I wasn't even phased, at first, by the presence of the two skinniest bridesmaids, because they're hot in their little skinny own way, and the Fathlete is hot in her own big-butted, muscle-woman, back-fatted way. Each to their own hotness, I say.

The problem was the size of the dress, which I knew would be bigger than my usual. And the bride, who now weighs about 12 pounds (and is gorgeous) warned me that she'd fit into the size I was about to try on, and Sister is much smaller than me. So when the smaller size, which is one up from what I usually wear, was too tight in the breasticles, I didn't mind. The next one up, a size I have not been since the late 90s, didn't fit either.

Uh-oh.

This meant that my dress, even though it's gonna be taken in, is in a size that I have never worn, even though I am not half the fat-ass I was in the late 90s. I know that it's my boobs, not everything else, and that I'm not really that size.

Bu I don't want to be at all. So I'm not gonna be. I promise you - and me - that when I get fitted for that dress in July, it will be a size smaller. At least. I know this is gonna hurt. But it's gotta happen.