Tuesday, November 11, 2008

battle of the bulge, Part Four - weight loss through hate and office products

So I’ve been battling (sort of) and so far my triumphs can be described thusly: I’ve lost a grand total of something like half a pound. And also my soul has been wrung completely dry of all soulful moisty goodness. SO HUNGRY. This, for me, is extremely frustrating because I feel like the last two months have been all about me trying to eat the less bad-for-me foods and less of those food anyway and also trying to find ways to exercise, exercise, exercise. And all this for ½ a pound.

Part of my trouble is my magical and unstoppable metabolism. My metabolism is both sneaky and brilliant, and responds to change almost instantly. I change my foods from those yummy, fatty and deep-fried to their lite ™ and helthi (also ™) cousins and it confuses the systems for a day or two, sure. But by the end of the week the metabolism is on to me and it’s found a way to leech rolly-polly pounds from the Lean Pocket and the sliced apple. So I cut back on the number of apple slices and have only ½ of the English muffin and only 1 taco for dinner rather than 2. And of course the scale drops initially, but once again my danged metabolism figures it out, and even the working out it out-smarts! “Go ahead!” says Mr. Metabolism, “tap your little heart out! Bike to work three times a day if you want! Do your puny little sit-ups! You can’t stop me!!” And then it converts my bone marrow into a new chin.

To make matters worse, I have friends like Risky and the King, who have the good witch Glenda metabolism to my Wicked Metabolism of the West. My friends are related to each other in such a way as to allow them to share their metabolistic traits, which work like this:

Eat a King-Sized Snickers and two bags of Doritos per day + blink your eyes eleven times = drop a pant size, step out of your over-big shoes, become invisible when turned profile. How I hate them.

Case in point: Risky has always been the tall, willowy type with the porcelain skin and the curly, black hair, even in Jr. High School. And yet it was around then that she introduced me to Annual Pig Out Day (which you and I call “Fourth of July”) The way she chose to celebrate had less fireworks and more bopping down to the 7-11 to purchase GOBS of junkfood: chocolate and chips and ice cream and fabulous Hostess creations and even just thinking about the piles of food has caused one of my arteries to completely close – pardon me for a minute as I self-CPR me back to life.


Anyway, Risky took a day and ate, ate, ATE and when the dust settled guess how many pounds she gained. GUESS! Do you have a guess? Does your guess start with “not a danged pound” and end with “and so I killed her dead!”? Because if it does you’d totally be right! (except for the killing her part. But I think totally wanting to kill her counts. Also the wanting could be aerobic, so…)

Where was I going with this again? Oh, right! The hate. The searing, seething but apparently not at all fat-burning hate…

Right now the King mocks me and my sad, all-too-human metabolism with his biking to work. He bikes to work once a day, and then also bikes home also once a day. For a grand total of two trips a day, about 40 minutes of biking per day. (when exactly did my blog posts become word problems?) I bike to and from work TWICE a day, taking almost 50 minutes of biking time. And he loses weight! And I lose nothing! NOTHING! GAAAAHHHHH!!!!!!

So here’s the plan for this, the last month of the Battle of the Bulge:
Eat nothing but salad greens, sunflower seeds and reams of copy paper. (roughage)
Stop driving completely and instead walk EVERYWHERE, and always uphill
Channel my hate of my skinny friends to my thighs and tuckas, utilizing it’s fiery hotness to burn away calories.


EDITED TO ADD: Did I mention that The Queen now has her own blog? Did ? Because she totally does! And on it she will tell you how she is attempting to win the battle of the bulge. So you can go there to read what she has to say, and then you can come back here and wonder how the hell I don't just explode from all the Strawberry Poptarts. Sigh.

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