Healthy Lifestyle, My Ass

This morning, I packed cottage cheese for breakfast and a chicken-salad sandwich, sliced red pepper, and stick of low-fat, low-sodium cheese for lunch.

And then I stabbed the knife I was using directly into my temple, because I suddenly realized that life is just not worth living if the calories in my lunchbox are lower than my IQ.

(I can totally see that embroidered on a pillow)

When I was married to the Ex, I was an exercise freak. I spent 2 hours a night, 6 nights a week at the gym, because quite frankly doing 500 crunches was still less painful then trying to cohabitate with that D-bag.

As a result, I was left with a severe bout of depression and a 6-pack of abs.

So, yeah, I was sad. But I was ripped.

Now? I’m significantly happier…and significantly less ripped.

Can’t have your cake and eat it too, I guess.
Or…maybe that’s exactly what I’ve been doing to end up too large for the majority of my jeans?

When life gives you a second chance, frost that bitch up and eat it.
(I don’t even know what that means).

So, after hitting a low point this weekend when I ingested 3 donuts, 2 slices of Mack & Manco’s Pizza, and a block of fudge the size of my head (in a matter of 6 hours), I decided that it was time to get my life back on track.

I’ve traded wings and quesadillas for fruits and vegetables, and reset my alarm clock for that terrible, horrible hour of 6:00am wherein I drag my flubby ass to the gym to remind my muscles that they’re capable of more than just transporting me to the nearest Rita’s Water Ice stand.

For the record, I think my muscles have amnesia.

Last night, Brian commented on my recent eating and exercising habits (otherwise known as Operation Gulag Labor Camp ’09), saying how great it was that I was trying to live a healthier lifestyle.

And I was all, “Healthy What? I just want to look good naked.”

Because let’s be honest - isn’t that what we’re all really trying to accomplish here?