After the blowout weekend I had, which consisted of too much eating, drinking and dancing and not enough sleeping, my body has decided it would like to have a word with me. And that word, it turns, is "Basta." (Wow. My body speaks Italian. Good to know!)
|MIRROR MIRROR on the WALL |
I hate you deeply. That is all.
(I spared you the naked version
of this pic. You're welcome.)
WHOA! That is just rude! Are those what they call "muffin tops?" My God. I've got muffin tops.
Once it had me in that position, my body started hectoring myself: "Look at you! You used to be a track-and-field champ! You couldn't have pinched an inch even with a set of forceps.
I don't look or feel like I used to and and I've been lugging an extra ten pounds around for years now. Are you gonna do something about this or do I have to have a stroke to get your attention?"
Well you can't really ignore a threat like that. You can't tell yourself, "Pshaw! Don't listen to yourself. YOU LOOK FANTASTIC!" Not when you're standing naked and hung-over in front of a full-length mirror.
So today, as I sit here swilling water and Advil and wondering why I overindulge at Caribana EVERY DAMN YEAR, I am making a vow. Starting
right now tomorrow, I am going to commit to be fit. I am going to tone up, get lean, eat clean. I am going to keep a Bridget Jones-style diary (it won't be the first time I've been compared to her) and bore you with the juicier details occasionally. I will do this for one full year six full months, at which time I will revisit the dreaded full-length mirror and 'fess up.
The "fun" begins right now. Going to make some scrambled eggs and cheese for breakfast, hold the toast. Hopefully the next instalment of this diary will have me reporting "Va benissimo!" For now, I bid you buon giorno.
(Wow. This Italian body thing could come in handy someday.)