Yesterday I had my check up with my doctor that is trying to help me change my wicked ways and live the healthy life. I'm making progress, she says. Never at the speed I want to, but progress none the less. I guess part of the reason I don't achieve things at the speed I want is because I am am always there to get in the way. I had a rough weekend, and I had to come clean. I feel safe with my doctor and know she understands, so I told her how it all went down.
I'd like to begin by saying, it wasn't my fault. I was a victim of my hormones. Will and I had been out and about shopping and it was a rainy, miserable day and I was hungry. Not to over-share (do I still have to make that disclaimer? Aren't we all aware that I over-share?), but I was PMS'ing. I didn't feel good and I wanted comfort food. To hell with healthy living! I wanted to go to one of my favorite Italian places called Contos. They have the yummiest pasta's in cheese sauce that is all melty and a little crusty on the edge of the bowl. It's heaven in your mouth. Their salads and garlic bread are yummy, too. I wanted comfort and I wanted it now. And when I am done being comforted by cheesy deliciousness, I then wanted to feel the love from the Flirt yogurt place across the way. I decided, I was cheating and as Will says, "go big or go home." You see, I am supposed to be eating all natural and essentially cutting out processed food, carbs and starchy, sugary stuff. You know, the stuff that tastes good. To derail myself in such a lavish cheat is definitely against the rules.
As I relayed the story back to my doctor I told her that I was proud of myself for choosing the salad at the last minute with grilled chicken, but that I enjoyed every bite of the bread with unleashed abandon. I almost made love to that bread. It was a special moment. My doctor nodded and said, "okay..." like she could handle that. And then I talked to her about the frozen soft serve yogurt afterwards. Again, she nodded and rocked in her chair a bit, now seeming a little more agitated, but just slightly so. She said, "okay..." And then I told her when we got home we watched three straight hours of the Kitchen Impossible on the food network. I think at that moment she may have snapped. She asked me what in the hell I was thinking and why did my husband allow that to happen. While she was on her tirade I quietly added into the conversation that I had also eaten some popcorn as a result of the TV created cravings. It took her a second to hear and process that. She lost her mind. I sat there on the couch as if I was a puppy that had been beaten. We were all kind of laughing about it, but still, I got a stern talking to about getting back on track.
Apparently getting back on track also includes exercise. Now, in the room with the doctor and I is the medical assistant that got my vitals before the doctor came in. She is this teeny tiny cute blonde thing that my pinky finger could probably take in a fight in the buffet line over the last piece of cake. I'm not saying it would come to that, just saying. Anyway, she informs me that I need to do "girl push-ups." After all, that will build up my boobs that are melting away. That's right, everything else is hanging tough, but not my already wimpy boobs. I told Diet Barbie that what would probably happen after doing girl push-ups is I would get Popeye the Sailor arms and still have no boobs. She promises me it will work. I told her that her life depends on it. Then the doctor chimes in and informs me I need to do yoga. I tell her fat girls don't do yoga. She informs me yes they do. Hot Fat Girl Yoga. There are classes for this she tells me. Well, first of all, there is nothing hot about fat girls doing yoga. What if I get into Downward Dog and can't get up? What if Sunrise Salutation exposes my belly, my shirt gets stuck up on my gut and then I have to go right into Touch Your Piggies and then my shirt is over my head and then I lose my balance and fall down. Then, I'm all hot and sweaty and I'm rolling around knocking other fat girls down and then I can't get my shirt back down and one of my marble sized boobs pops out of my sports bra that is riding up because I did Touch The Sky too ferociously? It could happen. What if I am on the floor and they are trying to get a leg over my head and I get stuck. Meanwhile, I've got sweat running down my face and I can't see. Next thing you know, class is over, I don't know it, my leg is around my head, I can't get out of my own half-nelson and then it's time for Thong Bunny Yoga and they have a hot guy instructor and then they all come and kick me around like a weeble wobble and laugh at me. And don't even tell me it couldn't happen. There is no proof that Hot Fat Girl Yoga is safe. I'm going to have to check my insurance policy.
I started doing some research about Hot Fat Girl Yoga and apparently it is real. But what if Fat Girl Yoga is just a bunch of women that think they are fat, but really aren't that fat, like, they are like 20 pounds over and that's it. I guess I need to search for Really Fat Hot Girl Yoga. It still sounds dangerous. I think I need to start slow, like, by trying Downward Couch and Rising Footrest. Baby steps people, baby steps.
I'd like to begin by saying, it wasn't my fault. I was a victim of my hormones. Will and I had been out and about shopping and it was a rainy, miserable day and I was hungry. Not to over-share (do I still have to make that disclaimer? Aren't we all aware that I over-share?), but I was PMS'ing. I didn't feel good and I wanted comfort food. To hell with healthy living! I wanted to go to one of my favorite Italian places called Contos. They have the yummiest pasta's in cheese sauce that is all melty and a little crusty on the edge of the bowl. It's heaven in your mouth. Their salads and garlic bread are yummy, too. I wanted comfort and I wanted it now. And when I am done being comforted by cheesy deliciousness, I then wanted to feel the love from the Flirt yogurt place across the way. I decided, I was cheating and as Will says, "go big or go home." You see, I am supposed to be eating all natural and essentially cutting out processed food, carbs and starchy, sugary stuff. You know, the stuff that tastes good. To derail myself in such a lavish cheat is definitely against the rules.
As I relayed the story back to my doctor I told her that I was proud of myself for choosing the salad at the last minute with grilled chicken, but that I enjoyed every bite of the bread with unleashed abandon. I almost made love to that bread. It was a special moment. My doctor nodded and said, "okay..." like she could handle that. And then I talked to her about the frozen soft serve yogurt afterwards. Again, she nodded and rocked in her chair a bit, now seeming a little more agitated, but just slightly so. She said, "okay..." And then I told her when we got home we watched three straight hours of the Kitchen Impossible on the food network. I think at that moment she may have snapped. She asked me what in the hell I was thinking and why did my husband allow that to happen. While she was on her tirade I quietly added into the conversation that I had also eaten some popcorn as a result of the TV created cravings. It took her a second to hear and process that. She lost her mind. I sat there on the couch as if I was a puppy that had been beaten. We were all kind of laughing about it, but still, I got a stern talking to about getting back on track.
Apparently getting back on track also includes exercise. Now, in the room with the doctor and I is the medical assistant that got my vitals before the doctor came in. She is this teeny tiny cute blonde thing that my pinky finger could probably take in a fight in the buffet line over the last piece of cake. I'm not saying it would come to that, just saying. Anyway, she informs me that I need to do "girl push-ups." After all, that will build up my boobs that are melting away. That's right, everything else is hanging tough, but not my already wimpy boobs. I told Diet Barbie that what would probably happen after doing girl push-ups is I would get Popeye the Sailor arms and still have no boobs. She promises me it will work. I told her that her life depends on it. Then the doctor chimes in and informs me I need to do yoga. I tell her fat girls don't do yoga. She informs me yes they do. Hot Fat Girl Yoga. There are classes for this she tells me. Well, first of all, there is nothing hot about fat girls doing yoga. What if I get into Downward Dog and can't get up? What if Sunrise Salutation exposes my belly, my shirt gets stuck up on my gut and then I have to go right into Touch Your Piggies and then my shirt is over my head and then I lose my balance and fall down. Then, I'm all hot and sweaty and I'm rolling around knocking other fat girls down and then I can't get my shirt back down and one of my marble sized boobs pops out of my sports bra that is riding up because I did Touch The Sky too ferociously? It could happen. What if I am on the floor and they are trying to get a leg over my head and I get stuck. Meanwhile, I've got sweat running down my face and I can't see. Next thing you know, class is over, I don't know it, my leg is around my head, I can't get out of my own half-nelson and then it's time for Thong Bunny Yoga and they have a hot guy instructor and then they all come and kick me around like a weeble wobble and laugh at me. And don't even tell me it couldn't happen. There is no proof that Hot Fat Girl Yoga is safe. I'm going to have to check my insurance policy.
I started doing some research about Hot Fat Girl Yoga and apparently it is real. But what if Fat Girl Yoga is just a bunch of women that think they are fat, but really aren't that fat, like, they are like 20 pounds over and that's it. I guess I need to search for Really Fat Hot Girl Yoga. It still sounds dangerous. I think I need to start slow, like, by trying Downward Couch and Rising Footrest. Baby steps people, baby steps.
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