I could stand to lose a pound or two or 10 or 20 but an e-mail from The Chubby Farm looks like an invitation to sweat to the oldies in a corn field. I’m more likely to run on a treadmill than ride a John Deere, especially if coaxed there by Raoul, a hunky trainer equipped with Cabernet, chocolates and a ripped chest.

It’s not as if I haven’t given weight loss a shot. Or two. Or three. Ok, signing up for Weight Watchers is an annual event and Gold’s Gym has issued an all-points-bulletin for my whereabouts. The only working out I do is weight lifting – carrying cases of wine from the car to the house. My idea of jogging is tailing Pinot, Grigio and Bongo out the door after I tell them it’s time to bathe Bongo.

The Big Guy turned me on to an exercise scam, er, routine, after he heard a fitness guru say we can lose weight by burning calories through routine activities. I turned the Big Guy on to waxed beans and tuna fish quiche. Mr. Fitness’s plan:

1) Vacuuming. Lose 100 calories for every 30 minutes; vacuum three times a week. I’m lucky to vacuum three times a year.

2) Dusting. Say good-bye to 100 calories for every hour we dust; four times a week would be good. Sure, if I lived in the Sahara Desert.

3) Grocery shopping. Lose up to 600 calories an outing but make sure to do lots of knee bends by selecting items from bottom shelves. Once a week is fine. So is having dinner prepared by The Big Guy but don’t hold your breath.

4) Cleaning floors, tubs and toilets. Three hundred calories an hour can disappear; try working this in daily, he suggested. Try figuring out why Mr. Fitness isn’t married.

Maybe I should work out. Although solo workouts are preferable (easier to sneak in pie and Pinot Noir breaks), I’ve checked into some group programs. Who can ignore the promise of fitting into a sexy little black dress after only 12 weeks in a crunch-and-cardio class? After the first session, the instructor returned my fee and handed me a black tarp. A military-style “boot camp” looked promising, until I found out they meant 5 a.m., not p.m. Truth be told, I worried about disclosing my eating habits. I’ve got a feeling the “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy doesn’t cover binging on banana moon pies.

The bottom line to losing weight is consuming fewer calories, but that’s not as easy as it sounds. On top of worrying about how many points there are in a glass of wine, we now have to be concerned about foods’ “healthy halo.” Everyone knows a low-fat granola bar is a healthier option than, say, a jelly doughnut dunked in caramel, but we’re warned to not get lulled into thinking it’s ok to eat six in one sitting.

As if. The only creature capable of scarfing down that much cardboard is a goat. Or Nicole Richie.

Losing weight may not be worth all the fuss. Look at Oprah. After losing gobs of weight she’s packed 40 pounds back on. Claims she’s overwhelmed. Sure. Choosing who sits next to you on the show, Hugh Jackman or Brad Pitt, can take a toll on a host. Selecting the book that all of America will run out and read is daunting. And all that worrying about sofa repairs every time Tom Cruise is booked? It’s a wonder Jenny Craig hasn’t called her.

Maybe I’ll hold off on that weight loss plan for a while. Just hand me my little black tarp.

Danielle Schaaf is the co-author of “Don’t Chew Jesus!” and can be contacted at hauteflashcontessa@yahoo.com. Read more of what the Contessa has to say at www.hauteflashcontessa.blogspot.com.