I’ve recently started to realize that unlike my mother, who miraculously drinks from the fountain of youth that flows from the perfect gene pool, I’m just largely aging.
After years of being devoid of aggressive exercise, I’m lacing up my ankle brace to run against the wind. I can no longer use typing or clicking (remote) as an exercise, though I must admit my fingers are damn sexy. If I were a Hula Hooper I’d have to worry about my fat fingers. Alas, I’m a lazy MTV analyst-slash-writer but at least I fell victim to the holiday gym membership even if I rarely get my money’s worth. That’s all going to change. Yep, I’m changing my routine and I’ll be more disciplined than a drill sergeant.
I eat fairly healthy but small food nuances that I thought contributed to weight loss, were really just bloat devices. As the women (and my gay guys) know, bloating has its role in diffidence. So, I’ve gotta know my facts or I’ll be a diffident Goodyear blimp. I’m headed to Target (they totally didn’t pay me) to pick up appropriate measuring cups so that I can eat by the damn book.
So there you have it, I’m going to work it out and if that fails I’m going to probably deflate my blimpish ass the old fashion way (money).