About 20 lbs.
Yikey shit, indeed.
|(Reminds me of high school pool parties)|
I guess I could get into all the self-psychoanalysis about why, and filling the empty pain inside and whatever, but the truth is, I'd just fucking rather have cookies than baked chicken. My will power is non-existent. If someone chose to drown me in a vat of slightly melted Pralines n' Cream Bluebell Ice Cream, that'd be fine with me. I generally don't like being sticky, but I could make an exception.
|(This actually makes me weep a little)|
I am just one of those people who will always have to keep certain shit away from my piehole. It's that simple. I do all of this to have a better life -- to live longer, be happier, have more confidence, not break chairs, etc. But a friend of mine posed a very interesting question to me today: Would I rather live a few years longer because I adhered to a strict diet and exercise regimen, or would I rather just eat what I wanted and be happy?
It's a tempting scenario. However, I know for me that I have a fighting weight, and I ain't at it. Not even close. Was at it once. Not at it now. I've tried the "eat whatever I wanted" -- I've been trying it all year: throwing sanity to the wind and eating like a 17 year old high school linebacker. And how do I feel? Like this:
Really. I've been moping around, feeling shitty and bloated and guilty. Wondering how gross John now thinks I am (he swears he doesn't.) More than anything, I just find myself feeling resentful (and a little sorry for myself) that this has to be my life -- the constant diligence and saying no and not indulging.
Then I think to myself how lucky I am to *have* a life, and instead of throwing myself a pity party (and I'd totally have ice cream cake at it, bitches), I turn to this blog.
My summer of eating like a field hand has come to an end. Join me on my lo-carb journey....for the 504th time.