This and that and fat

I’m back in “Boot Camp,” where most of the food is green, protein is lean, and exercise takes a sweaty, heart-pumping front seat to an evening of good TV and a glass of wine (or two).
Leave it to me to procrastinate until just four weeks before Christmas before putting my big girl panties on. Correction. It is because I cannot get my big girl panties on without lying down on the bed and writhing akin to a spoiled child that I’m up for change.
There’s no turning back until I can see my toes again.
I began this umpteenth health kick one week ago and was doing so well until about 5 p.m. that day, when I went to Menard’s to buy cat food for “G-man’s” cat and passed by the chocolate bars on my way to the pay clerk.
A “Whatchamacallit” had my name on it (being my favourite American chocolate bar in the world).
It never occurred to me how empty-headed I was until I’d left the store, driving down the road with half the chocolate bar shoved in and the other half at the ready—the wrapper already thrown aside.
Oh folly! Oh fate! My eyes bulged out.
“What are you doing?!” I shouted to myself. “What is that chocolate bar doing in your mouth?!” I squealed. “Have you lost your mind?!”
I ranted and kept poking in the “Whatchamacallit” because, Heaven forbid, I couldn’t waste it!
That’s the way the world has gone ’round for the first week, as if there are two of me—the healthy wannabe who starts to make a salad and the “chocoholic” who drags her knuckles along the cutting board thinking up every possible sabotage to leafy green vegetables she can muster.
I have a desk job and it’s making me fat. I swear, no sooner did I sit down two years ago and the Buddha belly morphed into 10 more pounds of jiggle goo.
Everything in my closet is getting bigger, creeping up sleuth-like as if I wouldn’t notice—one size beyond the beyond mark I swore I wouldn’t go beyond 10 years ago.
Just yesterday morning, staring down at the scale, sucking in my “Buddha” so I could actually see the numbers, and I still was trying every trick in the book to fake it out—naked, hanging on to the wall with one foot off the scale while holding my breath until blue-faced.
I couldn’t hide anymore.
Right then and there, I blamed every man I’d ever married or dated—for who else was there to blame for everything I’d eaten in moments of relationship roller-coasters but the men!
Okay, so maybe it’s a little bit of this and that. This chip bowl, that vat of dip, this glass of wine (and that one, too), that desk job, this comfy chair at home after work, that chocolate bar (this one, too), and no sweat.
The “this and that” list is going to change.

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