My Bagel Belly has risen. Again.
Not surprising since it is, in fact, made of dough, and I have been eating Cookie Butter like I’m preparing for some Dessert Apolocalypse.
I’m not quite vain enough to cry over the expansion of my Bagel Belly, and yes, I’ve written about the perks of losing your figure, but I am smart enough to realize:
1. Most of my family has, had or died of cancer or some crazy random heart issue. Being El Chubbo does not stack the cards in my favor of avoiding this stuff.
2. I’m asthmatic, which is not helped by slothliness.
3. My pants keep exploding, which may have something to do with my girth exploding as well. Maybe. Possibly. Jury’s still out on this one. There’s a chance one has nothing to do with the other. Maybe I bought a bunch of spontaneously combustible pants without realizing. This could happen.
For Mother’s Day, I simply requested that no one piss me off and that we head on over to the running store so I can be fitted with new kicks.
Not that I run.
I was made tall & strong for a reason: I don’t have to run. I can just beat the shit out of anyone that tries to chase me. End of story. But I digress.
High quality running shoes were all I wanted, since I’ve been meaning to get my bunion surgery for years and my knees are garbage. When I do work out, my foot friggin’ kills. Not exactly motivation to keep moving.
And my Bagel Belly is getting a bit out of control, so it’s time to get back into the routine of working out: Spin, cardio, weight training, remembering where the hell my gym is located.
I have to say, getting any sort of exercise apparatus (or cleaning equipment) is likely not high on the Mother’s Day Wish List for many women. But I really wanted them, and it made my day to get them.
And as of today, I am getting up at 5:30am on weekdays to work out. Start my day of right. Pay my dues for being a cupcake-eating machine.
My goal isn’t to be all Gwyneth-looking. I’m comfortable being the loaf of Whole Grain Wonder Bread (good stuff inside, but still deliciously soft & white) among the dark, crisp Pretzel Rods at the gym.
As long as I’m strong and healthy, I’m happy.
And it’d be nice if my pants stopped exploding.
But don’t worry, I didn’t just get a pair of sneakers for Mother’s Day.
I also got socks.
And a big, black penis.
I mean, and a drawing of flowers. Which is always nice.