Ah, the diet

So I had my crummy Lean Pocket for breakfast a little bit ago. And I’m eyeballing the marshmallow toasties right now.

I don’t like marshmallow toasties. I think they’re nasty – in real life. In Diet Land, however…they look pretty good.

Mmmmmmm…sugary carbs…mmmmmmmm…

**sigh**

Mostly, I’m on the diet because my husband, my rotten, crummy, no good husband, needs to lose weight. And he claims that he can’t possibly do it unless I’m on the diet too.

The reason I didn’t tell him to jump off a log is that honestly – it won’t hurt me a bit to be on the diet. I’m not exactly overweight, but I am heading back that way. Eating the “leftover” macaroni and cheese out of the pot and slamming down the uneaten chocolate chip waffles and standing over the sink after having already eaten a fairly large-sized dinner eating the last few spoonfuls (wooden spoon, not eating spoon) of mashed potatoes out of the pan is not the best way to keep a slender figure.

It ain’t like the old days, when I could eat whatever I wanted and not gain an ounce. Oh yeah. The Goode Olde Days, before babies, before responsibilities and mortgages and housework, oh my! In Those Days, I never had to think twice about my weight. I spent my weekends swimming, hiking, kayaking, walking, blah blah blah.

These days the most active thing I do on weekends is thrift store shopping.

Also, this first phase of the diet involves eating only Lean Cuisine-style meals. Which means that I don’t have to cook much, which means that I have that much less stress in my life. Which is never a bad thing. I’ve been a little more stressed out of late, so having just one less thing to fret about makes me pretty happy.

I’m also extremely proud of my 130 status because when Boo Bug was a year old, I weighed 179. So we went on this same diet and over the course of about half a year (and a lot of cursing and wailing and complaining and feeling like I was going to die of hunger) I went from the 179 to 115.

Which is to me proof that my body does not want to be fat. Given half a chance, it will slim down. If I can just keep my mitts out of the doughnut box…which I had great difficulty doing last weekend while my van was getting smogged. The Evil SpeeDee Lube People had brought not one, not two, but three boxes of doughnuts for their valued customers. I had to sit there for almost two hours smelling the damned doughnuts, drinking my aspartame-laden coffee and knitting frantically in a barely-successful bid to keep my hands too busy to grab the doughnuts and stuff them into my mouth.

Which, BTW, watered incessantly the entire time.

Diet wrecking bastards. They could have put out low fat apricot-oat cakes, but nooooooo. Just doughnuts. Glazed. Sugary. Doughnuts. With sprinkles and nuts and smelling heavily of maple sugar.

Which brings up something that has always puzzled me: why is it that one (1) maple-glazed doughnut in a box will cause Every Single Other Doughnut to smell / taste vaguely of maple? There could be three hundred other doughnuts in that box, but you put in just one (1) maple-glazed anything, and the whole lot will smell / taste vaguely of genuine imitation maple flavoring.

It is a great mystery of life, the strange potency that is genuine imitation maple flavoring.

But I digress.

The 115 crept up to 130 about six minutes after I got off the diet, and got up to 165 while I was pregnant with Captain Adventure.

So then after Captain Adventure was born and weaned, I went on the diet and lost the 25 pounds fairly easily…and there I have stuck, right at 130. Ish.

But honestly, it isn’t the weight that bugs me. I’m more than happy to be 130. Right smack in the middle of ‘healthy’ for my height, blah blah blah.

No. It’s the physique that bugs me. I’m about four seconds from removing the mirrors in my bathroom, because when I catch a glimpse of my nekkid self I honestly can’t for the life of me figure out why my husband is willing to share a room with me, let alone wanna get cuddly with “that”.

My butt is hanging down somewhere around my knees. There is a ring of fatty skin that dangles all the way around me – with a big bulge in front and a kind of “crinkle” in the back where my spin sucks it in.

It. Is. Ucky.

I can’t wait to shove it into my jeans in the morning. It tucks in pretty well in denim, especially if I kind of let my t-shirt hang a little bit instead of tucking it all the way down. That way I can pretend that the bulge is actually just a little pucker in my shirt instead of fatty skin.

Don’t pop my bubble. I know everybody knows it’s my flab. But I like to pretend that they look at it and say, “Hmm, her shirt is a little bubbly there…and there’s a weird pucker to her jeans, she probably shouldn’t keep buying them at the outlet center…”

I don’t really think the diet is going to help that. What I need is a good, sweat-raising exercise program. Preferably with a trainer, because I have no idea how to go about putting together an exercise program.

Ha. HAHAHAHAHA. Yeah *snort*, you know what? {chortle} I’m gonna start going to the {wheeze, gasp} GYM!! For, like, an hour, two hours a day!

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
{snort gasp gak}

Oh man. That was a good one. Heh. I’m going to be chuckling about that, like, all day.

The same way I do whenever I contemplate getting a Bowflex, so that in only twenty minutes per day three days a week for six weeks I can have RIPPED abs, DEFINED legs, and a TONED, SEXY core.

Whatever the hell all that means…a toned, sexy…what, exactly? Which part is that, again?