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| Chin Up Charlie, we will be ok in 5 days |
I love Bridget Jones, and I think back to college and how
hilarious I found it. The movie used to be my go-to film when I was looking
to lay on the couch and relax. The first book was followed by a second, and the
second followed by a third. I read the third book a year ago, and though I thought
it had funny moments, I wasn’t as dazzled. It was because Bridget repeatedly
called herself a fat ass, and she weighed the same as me. My sister told me the
first book did the same thing, but I was smoking a lot back then, so the scale
reflected it, and I didn’t catch the insult. Aside from making me feel obese, Bridget is a lovable fuck
up who manages to get everything she wants in the end.
Everything had been great. My exercise routine over the last
year developed into something brag worthy. Waking up and running 5 miles every
morning feels great, and the added benefit of being able to eat without guilt makes
it even better. Due to the morning physical exertion, exhaustion settles in around 8pm,
and sleep hits like a freight train, lasting all night long.
Last week I went to my parents, and my morning runs were
left back at home. I must have let things go to my head. The week without the
routine, coupled with eating like I was in my disciplined routine, left me
feeling like a bloated balloon. Then the super bowl hit, and I popped. I
learned why Buffalo chicken dip is served just once a year; it is painful as
fuck to digest. My sister and her husband left a truckload of fattening food in
my house when they left on Monday; spinach dip, onion dip, bags of chips,
tamales, French bread, Sourdough bread, pizza and ice cream drumsticks. I
gorged on this smorgasbord of trans fats and carbs for the following three
days.
Now, if I were Bridget Jones, I would be at the part in the
movie where she gets pumped up and throws all her vices in the garbage can. She
stops eating old cheese, and cereal straight from the box with a pasta noodle
scoop, she chooses more inspiring clothes than her business skirt paired with
white granny rebook sneakers. To demonstrate her will to change, she fills her bookshelf
with self help books. In parallel, I decided to read my lengthy horoscope.
After a collapse of my “kicking ass” foundation, I usually
think, “Was there a full moon?” Low and behold, there was a fucking full moon!
When I was reading my horoscope though, it said this full moon is supposed to
bring on A LOT of money, which is lovely to read, but it didn’t mention
anything about wanting to spend four days in hibernation, and eat so much food
I am going to need to wear stretch pants for the next month, and they will be stretched too thin and see through (Thanks to this dick for pointing that out!) My horoscope made it seem like everything was going to be roses
this month, so I am really at a loss.
My older brother is super religious, and I envy him because
I doubt he spends days thinking, “Whhhhhy? Whaaaaat? FUUUUUUCK!” He is
comfortable in knowing that what is planned for him will in turn reveal a
greater purpose, that everything is God’s intention, and God is here to help
him. It will take me 2 weeks to get back on track, and hopefully I won’t derail
AGAIN on 4th of July. Maybe the stretches are getting longer in
between derailment, however, this means that I am plummeting from much greater
heights. My last couple years can be charted like this:
This evening the kids and I went to Baskin Robbins and as we
were ordering our cones I look down and see baby George is taking a poo. Kiki
and I sit to have our cones. I tried to sit George in a chair, and he
immediately freaks, rightfully so because he is mid poo. George ran and stood
in the corner by a fridge where he licked his cone with bright paranoid eyes. I felt him looking at me and when I’d look over
at him, his eyes darted away. At first I thought it was poop shyness, but
since he started it in front of the cash register, I settled on him
panicking I would take his cone away.
George has not figured out how to lick an ice cream cone. Instead
he smashes the cone to his mouth, and then pulls it away and licks ice cream
from his lips. It would take him 3 hours to eat his ice cream, at this rate, and because it turns into a melting pile of mess before he gets a tablespoon into his stomach, I have to eat the ice cream as it falls off, and I end up eating two ice creams (BLASTED!).
By the time we get home, after a fiasco of prying the cone
from George and a fresh diaper on his butt, we settled on the couch with sippy
cups, and pajamas on. Then, I realized I didn’t have my arm extension; cell
phone. I knew I had it during the car ride home, so it had to be in the vicinity. After the kids were in bed I didn’t want to go back
out the car and look because I am a scaredy cat. Early this morning I found it,
underneath the car. Fucking weird, and how odd for that to happen! Is it the
universe trying to teach me a lesson on my Internet habits, and I can’t figure
out how this lesson is going to get me gobs of cash?
I saw a picture text my dad sent last night of my mom in the
hot tub wearing a shower cap. My mom, the smartest weirdo I know, could be on
to something. The next great shark tank idea, A HOT TUB HAT!
I don’t think the Hot Tub Hat is too likely, and Mr. Wonderful would probably be really mean when presented with this idea, but I did like
how the picture made me laugh. Maybe a solution would be to watch Bridget Jones
tomorrow. Have some LOL times, and then I can get back on track with my self
medicating... um, I mean, exercise regimen. Waking up and busting ass in crazy
exercise, can really help stabilize daunting mental turmoil, but the problem
is when the routine gets interrupted. There is a reason Bridget Jones only has
three books, because after 3 storylines of her tossing out all her vices, and hopping
onto a spinning bike, the viewer would be chucking their Buffalo chicken
dipped chip at the TV screaming, “Get it together, Bitch!” She might get away
with calling women fat asses, but she won’t get away with being the downtrodden basket case too often.
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