Saturday, February 07, 2009
It's 2009. There is still too much booty in my pants and too much muffin on top. Last winter, I lost a grand 30 or so pounds that made me feel healthier, look better, and shine with accomplishment. Then I gained it back.
Now, I'm down in the sewer of disappointment, and there are no Teenage Turtles with pizzas to save me. I did buy the pizzas, but when nobody came, I ate the Dominoes myself.
That's how I got myself in this mess. . . pizzas, pies, pastries, potato logs, pastas, Popeyes. Those are a few of my favorite things. They taste great going down, but then I have to deal with the aftermath: the heartburn, the reflux, the upset stomach, the pregnant woman belly that keeps me pinned to whatever surface I lie on. (Do you know how hard it is to get up with a jiggling medicine ball consistently strapped to your midsection? If you don't know, never find out. If you do, I feel sorry for you too.)
Here's the point: all of this eating I'm doing is killing me. But I still don't know if I can stop. I'm choosing between quarter pounder combos or another quarter century of living. The choice should be obvious, but it's clouded by my desire to have my cake and it eat two, four, and six times over.
I'm hungry for something. I just hope I find it before I run up a tab I can't pay. My ankles, knees, back, and hips have started to creak already. What's next?