Thursday, February 24, 2011

Please, Someone Feed Me

Morning Readers,

     You've caught me in the middle of a Castaway moment. An excellent and probable guess, but no, I'm not having deep conversations with a volleyball. Rather, I'm starving to death. You wouldn't be able to tell it from the sweet little roll of fat sneaking over my lemon-yellow Danskin pants, but the noises from my stomach are selling me out. The ones that alternate between gurgles, and baby coyotes howling in the moonlight. I wouldn't intentionally starve myself. Instead, I've opted to lay my feeble life upon the alter of diet shakes, and let them kill me instead. I beg you Slimfast...finish me off quickly. Be merciful.

     Some people address their weight issues proactively. Those individuals throw on matching workout clothes, lace up their blindingly white running shoes, and mount the elliptical with the sturdy resolve of a drunk girl intending to stay on the mechanical bull for the eight seconds it requires to get the XL shirt that says, "I rode the bull at Bob's rib shack." They're determined. And with much sweat and much pain they work those pedals, shedding the unwanted pounds, the jiggly spare tires. I'm just not part of that club.
     Looking for the easiest way out, I've thrown my lot in with the insta-cure crowd. Not so much the 'pop a pill and let's wait it out' set, but the other people. My people. We don't need treadmills, ellipticals, or weird, hanging weight thingys. They're like dragons to us. They could breathe fire for all we know. Fire= burns. Burns= maimed for life.
     Why sweat when you could starve to death slowly on cabbage wraps, wheat crackers and one-cup servings of flavorless oatmeal? Or, in my case, ration out two chocolate shakes, a day, with false promises that they'll keep you full. Because unfortunately, that's all you're left with..false hope. Fill me up for four hours, my big ol' behind. I've never wanted to hunt down a wild buffalo, with my bare hands, so badly before. Mmm..buffalo steaks.
     Resolving to give it "the old college try" (what the hell does that even mean anyway?), I've decided to stick with the torture for at least a couple days. The delusional conversations I've had with my brain have re-assured me that, after seventy-two hours of this nonsense, my stomach will, undoubtedly, shrink to the size of a Hollywood starlet, and will no longer require 36 chicken nuggets, half a pizza and four ice cream bars to satisfy it. I will be able to stave it off with a 1oz. salmon steak and a cup of salad...and it will like it too.What's that saying about Egypt? The Nile or something...?
     I'll let you take bets on the longevity of my genius scheme. For now, it's off to the fridge, in search of my morning "reward"...if you can call a yogurt as big as a baby marmot fist, a reward.

Until Next Time Readers!