I can’t say I’ve ever dieted in my life. And it isn’t because I’m naturally thin and gorgeous (I mean if you are I want to personally smack you), but it’s because, basically, I love carbs … mostly potato products. And if I couldn’t have carbs, I would probably stab someone. My whole thing is if my clothes fit and if I feel healthy, then there is no need to diet. I don’t own a scale, and when I go to the doctor and, against my will, they have to weigh me, I don’t look … after begging them not to weigh me in the first place (I always lose that battle). It is all about how you feel, not about the number you are.
I’m subjecting myself to this dieting nonsense because in a mere three weeks I will be on a beach for the span of five days … a place I haven’t seen in quite some time, also known as “vacation.” And the idea of putting on a bathing suit makes me want to light fire to them and frantically run away into a dark cave and hide in the fetal position until the next snow storm.
Could I stand to lose a few LBs? Sure, who couldn’t. But here is a fun fact about me: I hate gyms. Loathe them. I’ve tried, really I have … numerous times in fact. But they skeeve me. People are always trying to talk to me, asking me when I’ll be done the machine, telling me my shoe is untied, hitting on me. And seriously dudes, why? I don’t go to the gym to bring the boys to the yard, okay. In fact I’m probably in a disgusting t-shirt, weird sweats with stains on them, hair in a bun, and no makeup … sweating my balls off. Oh yeah … let me get some o DAT! Freaks. So yeah, gyms are not an option for me. EVER. Unless there is one in my house … real housewives style. That I probably, STILL, won’t use. But I imagine a treadmill would make a lovely clothes hanger.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a stationary person. I walk a ton, and sometimes I dabble in yoga (although I’m currently in the hunt for a new studio). But the reason I’m subjecting myself to this dieting hell is because, well, in your late 20’s things just aren’t, oh, how you say, naturally tight anymore. Gross, right? Eww, aging.
So as I sit here eating my plain Jane salad with half the dressing, no cheese, and minimal croutons miserably, I can’t help but crave a large plate of curly fries … and maybe a large margarita pizza to back it up. But in order for me to thoroughly enjoy myself on vacation, mama needs to tighten this shit up. I’m only dieting for me, because at the end of the day, you are the one that has to live with yourself, am I right?
In other news: dieting is the devil.