Thursday, September 6, 2007

Excuses. Not at all exaggerated.

If the last two days' posts were a) braindead or b) nonexistent, let me take this moment to try and defend myself. If I couldn't satisfy the world's insatiable desire to read alyse then it was because my fingers were too stiff and sore to type my own name, let alone transcribe all the witty wonderful magic of my days. How am I supposed to sing a rainbow if all I can think about is submerging myself in a tub of Ben-Gay at 91 degrees Fahrenheit?
Let me explain. This blog is about discipline. I have to be disciplined to contribute to it as often as possible (those of you thinking about when I disappeared to Ireland SHUT IT). I am not a naturally disciplined person: I don't turn homework in on time, I am a perpetual procrastinator, I eat Twinkies and boxes of Milk Duds. This was one of the reasons I was unsure about starting a blog--that, and I didn't want to turn into a self-absorbed diarist with a website. My friend Karen gave me the suggestion to start up this cockamamie operation, but even with her encouragement (thanks, Karen) I wouldn't have had the discipline to manage it if I hadn't been fat.
And you're right. I'm not fat. But I was. When I lived in the great cosmopolitan metropolis that is Denton, I worked for a year at a very good restaurant; obviously, I wound up eating quite a bit of the food and overcame a previously crippling dislike for alfredo. After that, I took employment at a bakery in Lewisville--Magnolia Cafe and Bakery--and thinking about it still gives me that tingly sensation only associated with fresh warm baked goods and passionate groping in the backseat of a car. The good owners of Magnolia let us help ourselves to the goodies while we worked, so I can happily remember having that tingly sensation almost constantly for many months. I found out last year that that wonderful tingle is actually what it feels like when your body is making fat--lots of it--on your ass. It is also the sensation you get when the waistline of your jeans is digging into your belly and cutting off circulation to your legs.
To this day I really don't know how I did it. It must have been the fact that I couldn't afford all new clothes. Quitting the job and moving home certainly helped. In September of last year I went out and bought myself one pair of bigger jeans, just so I could have something to wear besides elastic-waist skirts, and I started exercising. I bought a workout video and counted calories and by January I had lost almost all the weight. I kept it off, too, which was a miracle considering the fact that I completely abandoned it last semester in favor of the warm embrace of Sonic milkshakes and popcorn chicken.
But now it is BACK TO BUSINESS! Exercise! Go to the light! And I attacked this plan with such a vengeance last weekend that for the past few days I have never felt less like a woman and more like a slab of tenderized meat.
So whenever I miss a couple of days or my posts begin to be substandard, I would like you to assume that I am just off somewhere writhing in the pain from getting ripped, like the Incredible Hulk or something. That, or I'm on my period and just couldn't be bothered, which also might have had a little bit to do with it.

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