I don’t know about you but I’m plowing through “Dry January” damp and chubby. While not ideal it takes me a bit longer than the average fatty to get on the restriction train. I do not like being told what to do. Especially by myself. I prayed for a bout of the stomach flu to bring home the motivation I do not possess…Lord hear my prayer. He in fact did not. Or he did and decided he had other plans for me. Instead of a rando strain of the “non-eating flu” he blessed me with viral bronchitis. Perhaps I will speak in tongues next time. Loosely translated, this means none of the good drugs, a veracious appetite and sloth like energy levels.** Mental note: throw in an extra Hail Mary post haste.** I never get the “good” no appetite kind of sickness. I get fat girl sick. Sleep, eat and complain. Must my fat cells always be working against me? Why yes, yes they must.
I failed to mention….whilst in the hurricane of hell that is my current sitch, I am detoxing. Because dieting is too easy. Instead I choose to rob every morsel of joy from my life for two weeks in the name of health. No wine (random sign of the cross), no dairy, no fried anything = no joy. Jesus take me now. The irony of the sitch is quite amusing….I will be healthy for exactly 2 weeks and then old me will jump back into my body. There’s this thing called moderation that hasn’t really caught on in 51 years. Well that’s not exactly true. I have been cross training in order to limit my drinking to the weekends. This seems to work out from time to time. So there’s been some progress. I believe myself to be an extremist. There’s no middle ground. If you were lucky enough to go to High School with me, please reference the 1989 Blue Devil Year Book section labeled “Pet Peeves.” Underneath my senior picture (thank you Olan Mills) *** feathered red hair, purple shirt with the prepped collar ***my peeve is clearly stated…”the in-betweens.” The rock on which I stand. To this day (minus the hair and prepped collar), this timeless gem stands true. It’s all or nothing. You middle grounders can have your doggie bags and cork your wine bottles. I will be licking my plate and recycling. I get shit done. You diet. I detox. You are skinny. I am healthy…for 2 weeks.
I ride the fat train most of the year. Sometimes I make a stop in Skinnyville, Healthyville or Detox Hell. I always seem to make it back where I started so I’m thinking there’s some sort of success in that…or something. I mean….I want to be the 80% girl who can live on 20% of all the things she loves. And then I have to ask myself why? If I asked you to be happy 20% of time you’d slap me. And I would slap you back. I’m fair if nothing else. I want everything I love all of the time. No middle ground. Is that too much to ask? I want to wake up eating Chalupas and dunk my fries in ranch on the reg. No more passing up “Free Donut Wednesdays “at the Double D! This is winning! I don’t want to substitute quinoa for french fries. That’s borderline porn! And why is cheese on death row? The Europeans practically bathe in it! Maybe that’s it. I need to move! I need to move where I am loved as I love thine self. I am going all in! 100% happiness! Perhaps that’s been the problem all along. The Fat Train needs to jump the pond and go where love is love. Who’s coming with me? Cause I know a whole lotta you who are fake healthy and I aint gonna call you out….but I will save you a ticket on the Fatty Express. I gotchu!