As in, I’d rather die than diet.
I think maybe Billy Currington knows a thing or two about dieting:
A go getter maybe I’m not
I’m not known for doin’ a lot
But I do my best work when the weather’s hot
I’m pretty good at drinkin’ beer.
I know I’m on repeat here, having addressed this issue before. Many. Times. Before. But what was true then is true now. And gets truer and truer with every pound gained. The crazier things get at work, the more guests we have from out of town, the worse my eating (and drinking) habits become. Like clockwork.
And I’m not oblivious to it, either. It’s not as though I wake up the day after a project is due at work, or the day after guests return home like Dorothy after the tornado, groggily pointing around the room: “And french fries, you were there. Pint of ice cream, you were there. And Shiner Bocks, you were all there, too!”
It’s the eating, now, that’s the problem.
I read it all the time: “Six Pack Abs are Made in the Kitchen.” Since returning from summer vacation, I have been very committed to running 5K EVERYDAY, with only two or three misses in a month. (90% ain’t bad!) And I’ve kept up with daily yoga sessions on the 30 Day National Yoga Month Challenge. I’m proud and happy about these things, but Modern Science (that jerk) says no amount of working out is going to chisel this blob into the Venus de Milo without some serious menu revision.
What truly terrifies me is that I’m having trouble dieting in the dead of summer. Summer dieting, SUMMER dieting is too hard? How can dieting be so tough in the summer when there’s nothing inherently food-y about it. With all that’s coming up, I mean just think: trick-or-treat; pumpkin pie; candied yams, candy canes, Christmas cookies, birthday cake, champagne, champagne, champagne, Guinness-ice-cream floats (Oh wait, ok, I forgot I was counting up holiday foods, not just making a grocery wish-list.)
I’m not talking about a Gwyneth-style cleanse or going Vegan or anything. I really do believe moderation is key. (So what if it happens to be incredibly convenient that moderation is the loftiest goal to which I could aspire. I believe in it, dangit.) But I don’t know if I’m even on the track to moderation, anymore. I end a lot of these posts on a Pollyanna note of hopefulness, but right now all I’m hoping for is the willpower to order lite beers . . . .