If someone had told me this story, I wouldn't have believed it. But from the get-go, I was a witness and before the beginning had become yesterday's news, my best friend and I observed the metamorphosis of Paula - Pudgy Paula, we called her which wasn't kind but hey, between us, Best Friend and I prefer straight talk.

Pudgy Paula and Chunky Charlene were friends, not exactly bosom buddies but they were endowed with the obvious qualifications and one day, excited because their English term papers received the highest marks, they hugged. The class clown who considered himself a wag could not stifle the urge to blurt out his observation, "Look! Bosom buddies!" Of course, Pudgy Paula and Chunky Charlene blushed, squealed, and ran in opposite directions. They were of a certain age that bursts easily into tears. They were not quite 16.

But the bosom buddies jibe became the catalyst for Pudgy Paula and Chunky Charlene to lose weight. Because diets are boring to follow and tiring to hear about (especially the banning of cheesecake in all its succulent variations), I'll cut to the chase. After four months of calisthenics and counting calories, Chunky Charlene was no more. From out of a cocoon of baby fat, she emerged a butterfly - lithe and curvy, a poster teen brimming confidence. She glided and whirled. She tossed her hair. She drove the boys nuts.

Pudgy Paula came down one size, all over. She had a waist but not by much. Her body was well-toned but it didn't stimulate boys' fantasies because she did not fit their idealized image of a sexy girl. Paula was not the itsy-bitsy bikini type. She was a solid citizen, a dependable friend, and not a happy camper. When she walked, she didn't skim over the earth; she plodded. Paula was down in the dumps.

She sank lower when she tried out for the softball team. Charlene made the cut because the coach could detect a latent talent capable of development. But Paula was another story. She couldn't hit. She couldn't throw. She couldn't catch. She couldn't run. The coach appointed her assistant manager and made her responsible for the oversized cooler and its contents - an energy drink of debatable nutritional distinction. Paula lavished attention on the jug, keeping it stocked and chilled, and spotlessly hygienic. But her shoulders sagged and her eyes were lusterless.

At the second game, an error gave birth to a makeover of extreme distinction. A solid hit into foul territory clipped the manager's left knee and put her on the ground, writhing with pain. Word came back from the ER that following surgery, she would be on crutches for the rest of the season. The coach promoted Paula to manager. At first she was tentative. The makeover began when the coach handed her a clipboard. Paula accepted it; holding it by one corner, letting it hang down beside her leg. The coach asked her to make a note about sending flowers to the injured girl. Paula brought the clipboard up to where she could write on it, made the notation, and instead of letting the clipboard return to its ignominious lower level, she embraced the clipboard. So help me, it became part of her. I could see self-confidence coursing through her body. She stood taller. Her shoulders squared. Her eyes focused. She not only had a new job, everything about her body language proclaimed that she had a mission and, by golly, she would be the finest manager the softball team had ever had.

I said to Best Friend, "Chunky-no-more Paula has found her raison d'! Get a load of the clipboard dynamics!"

"Yeah," she said. "Authority speaks!"

Throughout games and practices, she gripped the clipboard. Sometimes, the clipboard seemed to be attached to her. She consulted the forms it held; she made entries; she made notes. She was efficient. She was happy. Before our eyes, Paula had become a different girl.

She celebrated the intoxicating elation of feeling she belonged by stopping at a bakery where she chose a slice of key lime cheesecake, its filling the authentic sallow, pale yellow hue of real key limes, and whose flavor was just sweet enough not to be too sour, and sour enough not to be too sweet. She savored every bite.

"Paula," I overheard Charlene say, "aren't you afraid you'll gain back the weight you lost?"

"Nope."

And she never did. I've known her for 30 years; Best Friend and I were her bridal attendants. Charlene was her maid of honor. And except when she was pregnant, Paula's weight never has fluctuated more than two or three pounds. She eats whatever she likes, and that includes cheesecake. She's a handsome, confident, purposeful woman, thanks to a makeover that began from within.

-- Scarlet O'Cheesecake