Reluctantly Yours, Tubby

Not surprising, but my belly hurts from all the pizza I ate this weekend. Getting the large seems like a good idea fiscally, but if I cared about myself, the small would have sufficed. The single pizza, I purchased for lunch on Saturday, fed me for five meals. Yes I had pizza for breakfast and yes I ate it all. Partly because leftover pizza is almost always better than freshly delivered, and partly because I wanted to erase the existence of this pie from the fridge.

There were two goals this weekend. One I accomplished by downing a lot of pizza. The other conflicted with the eating, so my goal to exercise didn't gain lift-off. The lady and I started a Ju-Jutsu class a few weeks back. Meeting once a week, it's not the type of exercise that will induce weight loss. I'm filled with a surge of energy after a class, reminding me how I used to feel when in shape. So the idea to shape up is rolling 'round my tubby noggin', waiting for the perfect moment to be realized. Trouble is, there is no perfect moment.

I had a fat dream last night. My ex and I were shopping at the mall. Not only could I not find anything that fit, but I had three pairs of jeans with me and continually changed from pair to pair, trying to decide which fit best. Upon making a decision, I'd toss the other two, only to retrieve them moments later from the trash and start the whole cycle over. There was no end to the dream, unless you count me waking up feeling fat an ending.

My tubby twenties were a result of getting married and being lazy. Sadly, it took the drive and pain of a divorce to start exercising. I hurt my hamstring jogging about a year after starting, stopped exercising, met the lady, and proceeded to pack on the pizza pounds. Last year I got back into a routine, lost some weight, but ultimately lost the battle when our treadmill started to malfunction. It was the electrical that would sputter out, giving less than ample juice to the machine, resulting in sudden drops in speed. Not very conducive to a safe, stationary work-out. Those are just excuses, not the reasons.

I eat late night snacks all the time. If snacks aren't available, I improvise by nibbling on whatever resembles food, sans preparation. I wake up in the early morning after a late night binge, and sleep pleasantly when I refrain. Strangely, this knowledge doesn't stop me from snacking. Plus, I've always been part of the clean plate club. Growing up, we were made to finish everything before we could leave the table. Sometimes hours would pass as I struggled with frigid green beans and rubbery steak. I also eat fast, which is why I don't feel full until it's too late. Actually, sometimes that bloated feeling doesn't stop me from cleaning my plate.

Not for the wedding, but by the wedding, I should try and get a grip on it. Maybe if all of you referred to me as fatty, I'd get off my ass and do something about it.