Well folks this Sunday morning finds your fearless author in a bit of a conundrum. I find myself motivated to write you an inspiring tale of personal growth, heroism and the power of the human spirit. However, what you are going to get are the words of a broken man who has reached rock bottom. Rock bottom you may ask, my God what is it? Drugs? Alcohol? Common Street Hookers? Worry not my friends, although I am slugging back a beer as I write this it is none of these things. What HAS broken me down are three very disturbing words, Physical Fucking Fitness.
As many of you know from previous blog posts and Facebook updates your intrepid author has been on about a 10 week journey into the planet known as The Gym. I have regaled you with stories of my personal pain and suffering, shared with you the joys the of sharing a locker room with naked shaving guy and watching 110 pound women run 27 miles and then bench press 12 times their body weight. Meanwhile I huff and puff through the workout circuit and try not to get my fat ass ejected off the fucking treadmill. While all of this is depressing in and of itself last week began my death spiral into my current state of desperation. You see The Blonde Who Shall Not Be Named added another layer of Hell into my life when she instituted a little program called Meal Planning last Sunday. It seemed innocent enough she claimed it would help with grocery shopping, save us some money and possibly add a little better food into our diet. What she failed to inform me was that my work lunches were going to feature a steady diet of food that even a self-respecting rabbit might pass up. To say it was a culture shock to my previously Taco Bell loaded diet plan would be an understatement. I found myself in a constant state of starvation where even a roller hot dog at the local gas station was looking like a damn delicacy. I swear I was ready to risk food poisoning for some fucking carbs at that point.
So, all of this leads us to today where this guy finally hit rock bottom. It started out innocently enough, I woke up feeling great and then the blonde Voldemort (oops, I said it) thought it would be a great idea to hit the gym to start the day. I was not in the mood at all but I had skipped yesterday so it had to be done. The real problem wasn’t just in the going to gym part but the fact I was freaking starving so in a move of pure brilliance I suggested to the lovely and talented One that today would be a great day for a party sub. That’s right folks, 2 feet of glorious meat and cheese and piles of heavenly fucking carbs. I mean Michigan is playing for the Big Ten title and March Madness is upon us how am I supposed to survive this on cucumbers alone? I was actually in utter shock when she said, “Okay, I will call and order one for you and the boys since I have a busy day anyway.” Although this did temporarily bolster my mood I did still hit the gym with exactly zero motivation for any activity. I half assed the treadmill, slow walked through some of the machines all the while dreaming of ham, turkey and piles of bread. Now this is where things really go off the damn rails for your hero. We go the local superstore to pick up the sub and all of a sudden I am like a virgin in a whore house, every single thing looks like the greatest food I have ever seen. In hindsight it was like I was actually outside my body watching myself dart down aisles throwing shit in the cart with reckless abandon. Frozen Burritos? Fucking A right. Fish sticks? Didn’t even know they still made them but they are in the cart now. Hot Dogs, Buns and Coney supplies? Damn right. A case of beer and snack chips? Mandatory at this point. I finally calm down and we make our way to the checkout and the Beautiful One says, “Would you look at our cart? I feel like I just shopped for a fraternity house.” This is when the stark reality finally set in, there is absolutely zero chance a complete lifestyle change will ever work for me. Everyone has been so supportive the last few weeks with their, “I’m proud of you for sticking with it.” And of course when they look at you and blatantly lie with the, “Man, you are looking thin” bullshit. That’s great Chief but the scale still cries out loud when I step on it. I surrender, take all of your carb free, kale smoothie, plain salad shit and leave me alone to my bacon cheeseburger. I can’t do it, I admit it. Guess what, I love fucking cheese. I worship at the altar of pasta. Taco Tuesday? That’s for beginner’s bitches, how about taco week? Bottom line here is whatever success occurs at the gym will immediately be negated by the onion rings I will inevitably jam down my pie hole. You know what, I am ok with that. If this working out thing only helps me from ballooning into Jabba the Hut type proportions I guess I will have to take that as a small victory.
Have a great Sunday folks and as always please comment and share on the blog and Let’s Go Blue!