FitnessFixation.com

Kay, y’all, sometimes I take requests, if they come from a good source, i.e. not the drunk guy at the party yelling, “Play ‘Hotel California’!” And this one comes from an excellent source, namely Kim, who coined my favorite expression for the way her legs feel after one of our “sessions”: she said she had “colt legs”. Isn’t that good? And also, I used extra quotes there because she sent me two blogs I love, blogs that chronicle the abuse of quotation marks and the apostrophe. Did you know I’m kind of an anal (ahem) grammar freak? You’d probably never guess from my blog, but I can cast big stones from my hovel made of glass. (70’s/80’s link alert! You missed those terribly, didn’t you?) But you should have guessed the uptight analness, I do run regularly after all, and no offense, but we religious runners are mostly really rigid people. Rrrrr-iiight, Rrrrooby Rrroo.

Anyhow, I mentioned today that I’ve been doing this food diary project “just to help out a, um, friend” and chronicling all the shit I stuff in my craw on a daily basis. It is a suck-ass project for me, mostly because I prefer to eat in denial, and I don’t like to think before throwing the virgins into the volcano. Lately, the virgins have been trail mix. Lots and lots of trail mix, the kind with toffee or chocolate and butterscotch chips in it nestled among the boring old nuts. Heh heh, nuts. I may not have the metabolism of a second-grader, but the humor, she is the same. So Kim mentioned I could write about it, and I am now doing just that. See? Sometimes I’m downright agreeable, like a Care Bear or something. Crabby bear. So here’s some facts.

Dear Diary,

-My usual caloric intake is on par with the celebrities who eat 1200 calories a day—if you double that and add some more, fuckas. I actually think it says something about our unrealistic idea of ideal thinness when people who are probably for the most part genetically predisposed to be quite wicked-thin have to eat no more than a lettuce leaf and half a chicken breast plus a decadent snack of one apple wedge with 1/2 an atom of peanut butter in addition to exercising just to look that charmingly gaunt. Then the magazines say, “It worked for so-and-so—you can do it too!” as though this is a) possible and b) an excellent idea. Oh, and if one more famous person says, “Now I just take one or two bites of any dessert and it totally satisfies me” I’m going to respond, “Really? And I’m a goddamn nun with twelve dicks.” Honey, if one bite is your definition of satisfied, your partner has it very easy. “No, just tug my ear one time and I’m totally there.” That. Is. Not. Satisfied. By. Any. Definition. Except. That. Of. A. Skinny. Ass. Feed. Me. Please. I’m. Dying. Inside. LIAR.

-Hmm, not so much on the old diary, was that? Okay, so fruit is not a dessert to me. Neither is paste. Or a diet soda. Or gum. But I am very big on desserts. Multiple ones.

-However, my denial tends to be strongest when confronted with some tweaky food I eat mindlessly. For a while it was peanut butter popsicles, which is what we call peanut butter on a spoon. A big spoon. I ate lots of those for a bit. I’ve spread peanut butter on everything except dog food lately. But I did notice putting the pb on something was better in terms of moderation than going straight from spoon.

-Most recently the demon is the aforementioned crack trail mix. I’m a total crackhead with this, even stooping to examine stuff on the floor that might be a piece of toffee. The trail crack problem is also magnified when I am, as we say, pre-monster-al. Now, I stopped buying the trail crack for a while because I know rule number one, the “easiest way not to eat it is to eliminate close proximity”. A car trip makes the trail crack less appealing. But then I forgot rule number two, which is “don’t listen to your own bullshit” and I thought, as I have a hundred million times before, “this time is different, I’ll be more disciplined and magically grow a whole new non-obsessive personality that makes trail crack abuse laughable, this time I’ll hang out in the crack house but just for a social visit, I won’t even smoke that big juicy rock in the cupboard calling my name.”

So I do know rule number three as well, which is “make your serving sizes in advance of smoking that shit” and I made some small, 1/4 cup baggies which I was just holding for a friend, that shit isn’t even mine. But I left the rest in the big bags, and when I went to eat, I ignored the weenie bags and I hit the big bags hard, yo. Because I wanted to eat mindlessly, and get all cracked out, not just mildly buzzed. Now those big suckas are gone, daddy gone. In just a couple days.

Rule number four is, “if you fuck it all up, you have to revert to rule number one” so now the fear of god is within me. But because I am who I am and that’s all that I am, I’m somehow thinking the fear of abstinence will help me do better next time. Riiight. It’s always breaking goddamn rule number two that yanks my chain, the bitch.

-In good news, I eat lots of fruits and veggies and lean protein and I eat small, trail-crack-laced meals frequently. With god as my witness, I will never go hungry again. Actually, I really am that Scarlett. I won’t do anything that involves excessive hunger. There’s even mandates about that from those who love me enough to know that when I get low blood sugar, I’ll rip their goddamn heads off and holler “fuck you fuckers” down their throats for the echo effect.

I could actually post a page or two, but it might be dull, what with the every other line item being trail crack. I will if it helps. For now though, I’m gonna go detox with this jar of Jiffy…
-Oh, and I work out sometimes. Yeah.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, August 27th, 2008 at 10:11 pm and is filed under blah blah, body building, exercise, fads and facts, first person, healthy crap, linkorama, love, nutrition, running, sanity, weight, your time. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.