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Byline: Sally Singer
To celebrate, or obliterate, his fortieth birthday, my husband flew away for a golfing weekend with three friends. A year later, as I approached that thrilling milestone, I searched my mind for a rite of self-
indulgence that was equivalent to, but a lot more fun than, tramping around the faux-landscaped expanses of a Florida exurb with men in ghastly khakis swatting away their midlife crises. I decided that what I would most like to do, and needed to do, was work out, hard. I considered boot camps, bikini and non-bikini, ashrams and luxury spas. But in the end, the prospect of donning a terry robe and slippers and lining up at a ...