I hate the Holidays. Specifically the Holidays in November, December and January. My little episode with shingles put the kibosh on cycling, so I sat around getting flimsy. Then Thanksgiving rolled around and I ate. A lot. We must have traveled almost every weekend between then and Christmas. And everywhere we went I ate. A lot. After all, it’s the Holidays. Eat, drink,
be merry get fat and lazy. Once the great unwrapping was concluded we, once again, loaded up the car. To Nana’s house. To Aunt Amy’s house. To the other Nana’s house. To Luke and Andrew’s house. And I ate. A lot. And washed it all down with draft Warsteiner from Mistopher Christopher’s kegerator. We stopped at every freaking Cracker Barrel between here and the Mississippi. We ate at Sonic and a buffet in Piggott, Arkansas. We almost stopped at Lambert’s, but decided that would be overkill. Steak ‘n Shake. McDonald’s. Wendy’s. Road food. Lots and lots of road food.
That, folks, was the nail in my dietary coffin. I am now heavier and more rotund than I have ever been. EVAR. 240 lbs. of wheezing, pants-outgrowing, face stuffing roundness. Seriously, I had to buy bigger pants. I
fucking (Christie says I shouldn’t say “fucking” on my blog) hate the bathroom scale. I can’t see my belt buckle.
That’s enough of that
shit (or shit, for that matter).
Today is day 2 of Weight Watchers. So far it’s not too bad.
Tonight I went for the first bike ride longer than a mile since, well, probably before Thanksgiving. A measly 6 miles on a route I would have laughed at last summer. Right now I’m not laughing. More like gasping, wheezing, coughing, sweating. It’s 28F out there and I worked up enough of a sweat that Christie has noticed my aroma.
For what it’s worth, I am still the King of Seventh Street. But just barely.