I just don’t get it; I’ve been exercising, I’ve been eating right, I’ve even stopped rubbing lard and salt on all of my pores in order to get that “crispy” look. Come on, I want results, I want them now, and, personally, I think I’ve earned the right to drop the twenty pounds necessary to squeeze into that leotard I bought to perform my tribute to America for the troupes tomorrow. No, it’s not soldiers returning from war, it’s actually a bunch of theater troupes I know that are meeting up with me after they go out for pancakes and I just want them to know how much I love America.
How long do I have to keep at this to see results? Seriously, body, I’ve been working really hard and sticking to my regiment; tomorrow will be already be Day Two!
Started with a run this morning—there were nearly no survivors. It was a blessing and a curse that my pigeon toes did not live up to their name, as, unfortunately, I was not flying down the sidewalk; however, I did not feel my usual pigeon-like attraction towards eating food out of everyone’s trash. Overall, I guess the pigeon toes were pretty neutral if you’re discounting the chaffed ankles and the running like a very drunk tyrannosaurs.
Nearing the end of the first block my physical and emotional baggage began to flap in the breeze; by the end of the second block my thighs and jowels (yes, I carry weight weird) began to flutter like a couple of pasty windsocks. Something triggers a dusty, old synapse in my brain and I start reliving the infamous failing of my third grade Presidential Physical Fitness Test all over again. It’s then that I realize I have come full circle; as the day I failed that Presidential Physical Fitness Test I tried to make it up to America by dancing with sparklers on my front lawn in, yet another, grossly undersized leotard.
It’s not just the exercise regiment, oh no, I’m starting to eat better too. When I returned from my run I jumped in my car and drove to the KFC at the end of my block where I made healthy choices by opting to NOT get my usual extra side of gravy with my family bucket for one. I decided to eat my chicken in my car, as I do not have the self-control to resist the siren song of fried food for the entire drive home and, further, I didn’t want any of my KFC regulars on the inside to witness me in this fragile, dieting state.
Upon arriving back home I go into a tizzy. I’m serious, an absolute fucking tizzy! Are you there, results? It’s me, Justin. I thought I was on the verge of a stress-induced peptic ulcer when I discovered I couldn’t fit into my smaller clothes yet. It’s like everything is against me. I mean, my bathroom scale and waistline both refuse to acknowledge any of sacrifices and snackrifices I’ve made in my new routine!
I’m second-guessing my tactics now; perhaps diet and exercise isn’t the best way to lose weight. Maybe I should move onto plan B. Similar to how Plan B helps women pass their potential not-yet-born babies quickly, my plan B is also essentially a ploy to pass my, although already matured, food baby as quickly as possible. Long story short, I’m going to induce labor on this fetus of food by eating the house special at that filthy Ethiopian restaurant and then simply pooing myself thin.
Looking forward, this plan makes much more sense than diet and exercise. Think about it; look at how skinny the average Ethiopian is. It’s probably because none of their traditional cuisine can stay in anyone’s system for more than twenty minutes.
Boom, I’m on to you diet secrets, Ethiopia!