Consciously Uncoupling From Carbs and Vodka

Screen shot 2014-08-25 at 5.31.05 PMWelp, I’m back from vacation. And it was lovely. Truly. I’m refreshed, rejuvenated, creatively stimulated from my brain sitting on a shelf for the past week, and I’m no longer Casper the Friendly Ghost status. I’m more like his fourth cousin second removed, Slightly Toasted Marshmallow. What I’m trying to say is, I no longer look like I have a vitamin D deficiency, ya dig?

But when you look deeper inside my soul, and my veins, you will find something way less pleasant. Way less … healthy. And that is because vacation means carbs … and copious amounts of vodka. Seven days of, “ooh a frozen pizza for breakfast … SURE why not!” “Cocktails on the beach at 11 a.m. that can’t stop won’t stop until I crawl to bed at 1 a.m.? Bring it on!” For seven days. I know, I know … poor me, my life is so terribly, waaah, boo frickity whooo … but talk to my body, who wants to go on strike. It hates me … thoroughly. It wants to cut me.

If you don’t believe the horrific state I’m in right now, let me tell you a little story called I only peed once on an eight hour car ride home. Just once. That is how significantly dehydrated I am. The only hydration I received whilst on vaca was when I switched to vodka and club. Literally, I think I drank 14 bottle of water today and I still feel like my eyes are roaming around the desert with no water in sight seeing mirages of dancing pieces of bread.

So because I can’t keep my eyes open and I’m lethargic, and cranky, and my skin looks like something that roams around the hallways of a middle school, and I feel like I’ve gained straight up 15 pounds … I’ve made a decision. It has been a hard one to make, let me tell you. And slightly disturbing to even contemplate. But carbs, vodka and I … need to consciously uncouple. It’s time. I’ve always wondered why this Atkins character would invent such a torture-some diet that cancels out all carbs. Now I get it. He must have gotten back from a family vacation¬†and felt like a bloated whale and said, “ENOUGH!”¬†

I’m not one for diets. Or working out. Or being active. Or wearing those crazy ass “waist trainers” that Kim Kardashian has been seen using (ps. what in the name of all crazy is that shit about?) I’m just not. To sound like an obnoxious, valley girl for a hot minute (we all get one minute in life to sound like such hideous fools), like :::twirls hair::: shopping is my cardio :::pops gum:::. But when you feel this gross and unhealthy like I do right now, you do drastic things that you would never thought were possible. Like MAYBE just MAYBE not ingesting so many damn carbs.

At the end of the day, ladies, it is about being healthy. Mentally and physically. Pizza at all hours of the day and too many cocktails equals death. Yoga and veggies equals fresh to death. I mean, I hope so. If I don’t start feeling better on top of giving up carbs and vodka, I may or may not shank someone. Just sayin’.

Man, if everything goes according to plan, I will look like a super model just in time for the polar vortex to rear his/her/shis ugly face so I can layer my six pack under inches of wool. Screw that, if I have a six pack, I’m rockin’ a bikini in zero below weather. What what. #Classy


HELP! I’m Dieting!

CaptureIt’s sad but true :::sigh:::

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.