Anybody out there ever tried weight loss patches? They’re like birth control patches or quit smoking patches, with the possible exception that those (at least the birth control) actually work.
Here’s a hint, if you slap a weight loss patch on your hip and your fruit salad is still jiggling when you take your hand away, you’re gonna need more than a Band Aid to trim those jigglers down. Ask me how I know this.
Lately whenever I make a payment to Bubba—the obese personification of my credit card debt, for those of you just joining us—I feel like I’m slapping a weight loss patch on his big ol’ pot belly. You know, $300 makes Bubba ripple and shake, but when the fat sea calms, the volume remains.
So it is with my diet and exercise efforts. One sweaty drop in a big, big bucket. This week I went in for a Commit to be Fit appointment at the YMCA. I know, doesn’t that sound serious? Like I mean business? My very nice personal coach asked if I’d like to do a fitness evaluation. I laughed at her. As if I need anybody to tell me I’m out of shape. Even if we’re just talking a matter of degrees, what’s the point? There are two options, you’re either fit, or you’re me.
My coach had me climb on the stair machine for nine minutes. Would have been ten minutes, but I just gave up and rode backward down the revolving stairs until I landed in a heap on the gym floor. After all, one can’t become fit if one is dead.
Next my coach put me through a round of torture devices known as weight machines. I seem to have strained some areas of my body I didn’t know existed. Right now my armpits hurt. Okay, yes, I already knew they existed since I have to cake them with deodorant before I go workout. But there’s some other spots, well, let’s just say I try not to think about them, but it’s hard when they feel like rubber bands about to break.
I went back today for more pain and hopefully some gain, or loss as it were, but I must confess, I felt sorry for myself the rest of the day. Nobody should have to give up all the things they like to eat and be regularly murdered at the gym. My pity party plunged to a new depth when a good friend and I had a discussion about a secret, favorite food—cheese in a can. You know the stuff. It actually says processed cheese food on the can. How reassuring, it is actually food.
Anyway, my girlfriend mentioned how surprised she was when her hubby brought home a can of squeeze cheese and a box of crackers for her. I was immediately jealous. Where’s my can of squeeze cheese? Where are my flowers, er, crackers? Doesn’t my husband love me as much as my friend’s loves her? After all, nothing says I love you like tangy, orange goo and a box of Chickin’ in a Biscuit. Really. I’m not being sarcastic even though you think I am. Bringing your wife the thing she craves is the ultimate romantic gesture because it says, “Not only do I know what you like, but I’ll go out of my way to get it for you.”
Later on in the day, for reasons that still remain unclear, I found myself in a health food store. I wandered from aisle to aisle searching for the processed cheese food. Not one tiny, orange glop to be found. Sigh.
I think I’m looking for love in the wrong place. If I’m after seaweed crackers, wheat-less baked goods, or liquid miracle grow for humans then Vitamin Cottage is the place to be. But if I want love, I guess I better phone my husband and ask for what I want. “Honey, would you stop off and get me some bacon-flavored processed cheese food on the way home?” I think my armpits need some anesthetic.
Hell hath no fury, like Mariah scorned...
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