Please, Reach Out To Others

My post-workout soreness finally went away yesterday afternoon and I stopped getting those strange shooting pains starting at my right elbow and careening down to my finger tips, leaving that whole extremity in a state of such confusion I think the properly functioning portion of my brain overruled my normal right-handedness and started forcing me to grab cups and pens and shampoo bottles with my left. It’s very odd to grab your morning coffee with your left hand, even when you know that there’s every chance a tree will drop a leaf into the silent forest and it will inexplicably piss off your right arm, which will then revolt by sending tingling, numbing pains down to your fingertips which in turn causes you to drop whatever it is you might be holding.

I think the Workout Feeling backfired on my psyche, however, because in the past few days I’ve been unable to resist the call of Cold Stone Creamery, that bastion of public fatness, a place that takes already sweet and delicious ice cream and INJECTS MORE FAT into it, just to make it even creamier and drool inducing. I’ve been inside the doors of this hell many times and never felt innately compelled to purchase anything. I’m happy to watch other people eat it but ice cream has never really been my thing. Unless it comes with cake, and then I’m all over it. Which is how I got into trouble on Monday when I ordered the cake batter ice cream with chunks of yellow cake and pecans, all mixed in. Seriously, if I could have promised my undying devotion to this concoction, promised to love and cherish it for all time, I would have thrown my marriage views to the wind and slipped a ring on it’s cold, icy finger.

And so yesterday I found myself in the grip of the cake batter ice cream again and pulled into the parking lot before I’d even had a chance to talk myself out of it. Thankfully I ordered a small this time but seriously, like those extra 200 calories in a medium would have had any effect on the size of my ass.

I should also add that in that same day, I ate a package of chocolate ho-hos and a bag of cheetos. Things I normally would never have an inclination to eat, except maybe the cheetos and even then the only time I let myself buy them is if I can find the baked kind on the chip aisle. I do this because the baked kind don’t taste near as good as the regular kind, which makes me disinclined to eat eighteen handfuls all at once.

So maybe this working out thing isn’t for me. Maybe I should throw all caution to the wind and shove bonbons and jellybeans and baskets of fried pig feet down my throat and embrace the oversize-lady adult film industry. Because if you’ve ever googled that, and I know you have, then you’ll notice that all the men are completely normal sized and they seem to find great pleasure in lifting yards of flesh away from the important bits so they can do, you know, the thing they were hired to do.

Blech. Right now that above paragraph is enough to keep me from EVER eating bonbons without serious restraint. I kind of just threw up a little, right in my hand.