Monday, July 9, 2012

The Inner Fat Kid Always Wins

Lately, my boyfriend and I have become nearly obsessed with our health. Our concern doesn't necessarily make us anorexic or anything to that extreme, but we definitely whine and complain a little bit much about how our respective ages - and especially our indulgent lifestyles - have caused us to realize our lacking in the once majestic and legendary metabolism of athletic teenagers with penchants for never stopping ever. Alas, we no longer live life like we're Sandra Bullock in Speed, keeping our pace above 55mph; instead, our efforts to live at such dangerous speeds is abashed by the unfortunate event we all must endure: aging. Fuck you, aging. Fuck you so hard in the face. Father Time is a sick, sadistic asshole.


And he looks like Mark Twain with a scythe.

Regardless of the truth that age is a disease with which we are all infected, we still give at least some effort to chase that mirage of eternal beauty and brawn with unlimited energy (like nearly everyone else, so don't judge, assholes). We exercise, we drink a shit ton of water, we count calories for Cthulhu's sake. Then, we reward ourselves and lose a "little bit" of discipline when the weekend arrives.

Let me elaborate.

After a fun weekend in the tropical queue line teaming with drunkards and teens in tank tops that is Central Florida, we came to the conclusion that our indulgences were becoming a little bit more frequent than our discipline in a healthy lifestyle. The agreement (okay, okay, it was more like a challenge) was that, after our little trip, the boyfriend and I would persist a healthier living situation that included eating foods that were considerably healthier than just a plate of greasy, fried chicken tenders or a buttery, charred, grilled cheese sandwich. Holy crap. My mouth is watering right now. We even promised to cease drinking that beloved yeasty bread-drink (with the exception of Saturdays) in order to reverse the evidence of our youthful endeavors.

They're actually in line, waiting to get in line, to get into the line to get into Florida.

Yeah, that was harder than we thought. On the morning of Day One, the boyfriend and I did our thing: he ran a gazillion miles while I walked my little fat ass around (I can't run, remember?) for a good half-hour to sweat out a few calories while I thought about life and what the hell smelled so much like shit outside and how it was magnified by the hellish heat that is Savannah/Hell/Your Worst Oven Nightmare. That part wasn't so bad, mainly because that was what we had been doing for a short while before our "pact."

Lunch wasn't too terrible either. After ordering some delicious/kind of healthy noms from Zunzi's (now nationally known!) and avoiding eating all the bread, we walked off half our sandwiches through even more sweltering heat-filled humidity and sadness just to get back to the car. Again, not so bad. I mean, we may have been, say... a little bit cranky, but we were sure it was from the heat. And Great Poseidon's Salty Asshole, it was fucking hot outside.

Those parts weren't so bad. What was so bad was avoiding Starbucks and Leopold's Ice Cream Shop. Or chocolate. Now that was a challenge. And - again - it was too hot to do anything productive or entertaining other than just laying about and watching movies.

It didn't help.

We wanted beer and pizza and candy and ice cream with chocolate sprinkles and... I could go on, but I just came. We couldn't handle our withdrawals. I wanted to have something in my mouth-hole so bad (that's not appropriate to think that way, you sickos) that I ate grape tomatoes while watching American Reunion in bed. And yeah, it did look weird. We were so uncomfortable and listless, because we had cloistered ourselves in the apartment to keep ourselves from yummy evil that we couldn't figure out if we were hot or cold. Seriously. It was 5 million fucking degrees outside, the air conditioning was on with a fan aimed directly at us, and we were under the covers. What the hell was wrong with us?!

It was strangely similar to Dewey Cox's rehab experience.

I'll tell you what was wrong. We were losing the fight with our respective inner fat kids. Those pudgy demons within us were hungry and pissed, tearing at our stomachs and toying with our minds, telling us, "Yeah, eating a pizza isn't all that bad. Just cover it in a salad and it will look healthy." Yes. We did that. My boyfriend bought a pizza and we ate salad with it to make it seem "healthier." Not to mention that we maybehadabeer during dinner.

What? It's good for the heart!

See what I mean? The Inner Fat Kid is SATAN. He lurks in your stomach, instilling fear by growling at you throughout the day. He does something weird to your nose that makes you smell chocolate from eighteen miles away. He even makes excuses for you, like, "You'll only eat one chip," or "If you eat 86% Cacao, it'll be healthy or some shit like that. I don't care, I'm just hungry and it's there." How does one fight such a beast? No, really? Because I don't know, and I really want to know. Like right now.

How do you hit an imaginary fat kid? 

I guess we really can't beat the inner fat kid. He will wear our bodies like a burst package of buttermilk biscuits, letting his pudgy evil seep out through the cracks of our cardboard jails, screaming for a candy bar or to be let out in the mile-long buffet line at a Florida restaurant. All we can really do is ignore that little shithead until we can't take it anymore or aim to get food poisoning and gain a taste aversion to everything delectable.

Eh. Fuck it. I'm going to have another slice of pizza. (But it's okay, because I had a salad.)


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